IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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PhotL'graphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


L'lnstitut  a  microfilm^  le  nieilleur  exempl-iire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Le&  details 
de  cet  exempiaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


D 
D 

n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


Q 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restauries  et/ou  pelliculdes 


n 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 


D 
D 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tacheties  ou  piqu6es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ditachdes 


n 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reiiure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouties 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  ie  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  M  filmies. 


D 


Q 


D 
D 


Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


Q    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  indgale  de  I'impression 

r~7|    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Comprend  du  materiel  supplimentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellament 
obscurcles  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film^es  d  nouveau  de  fa^on  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


Papination  irrep;ular  as  follows:  123,  130-191 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film^  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqud  ci-dessous. 


10.x 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

University  of  Victoria 
McPherson  Library 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

University  of  Victoria 
McPherson  Library 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  asd  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  te..u  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginni'^g  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film6s  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commengant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  an  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning   "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie   "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
r'ght  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  §tre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  §tre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

"CUV 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


S  S^"^^^' 


BY 

Mrs.  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

Author  of 
•CUV  EiUOSCOURTS  WIFE."  "A  TERRIBLE  SECRET,"  "A  WOMDSa- 

FUL  WOMAN,"  Etc 


NEW  YORK : 

THE  FEDERAL  BOOK  COMPANY, 

PVBLUHIKS. 


Li  4- 5  ST 


If,  j^t.^  '  -f^^ 


SIR  NCEUS  HEIR. 


CHAPTER  I 


em  NOEL'S  DEATH-BED. 


The  December  night  had  dosed  in  wet  and  w?ld  aronnO 
Thetford  Towers.  It  stood  down  in  the  low  ground, 
amothared  in  trees,  a  tall,  gaunt,  hoary  pile  of  gray  stone, 
all  peaks,  and  gables  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  and  rook-in- 
fest^u  turrets.  A  queer,  massive,  old  house,  built  in  the 
days  of  James  the  First,  by  Sir  Hugo  Thetford,  the  first 
baronet  oi'  the  name,  and  as  staunch  and  strong  now  as  then. 

The  December  day  had  been  overcast  and  gloomy,  but 
the  December  night  was  stormy  and  wild.  The  wind 
worried  and  wailed  through  the  tossing  trees  with  whistling 
moans  and  shrieks  that  were  desolately  human,  and  made 
me  think  cf  the  sobbing  bar.shee  of  Irish  legends.  Far 
away  the  mighty  voice  of  the  stormy  sea  mingled  its  hoarse- 
bass,  and  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  in  long,  slanting 
lines.  A  desolate  nigat  and  a  desolate  scene  without ;  more 
desolate  still  within,  for  on  his  bed,  this  tempestuous  win- 
ter night,  the  last  of  the  Thetford  baronets  lay  dying. 

Through  the  driving  wind  and  lashing  rain  a  groom  gal- 
loped along  the  high  road  to  the  village  at  break-neck  speed. 
His  errand  was  to  Dr.  Gale,  the  village  surgeon,  which 
gentleman  he  found  just  preparing  to  go  to  bed. 

'*  For  God's  sake,  doctor  !  "  cried  the  man,  white  as  a 
tiieet,  "  come  with  me  at  once  1    Sir  Noel's  killed  I " 


6IJk  A'OEL*s  HEIR, 


Dr.  Gaie,  albeit  phkgiuatic,  sUggcred  back,  and  tttrsd 

ftt  the  speaker  aghast- 

"What?    Sir  Noel  killed?" 

♦'  Vve're  afraid  sO;  doctor ;  none  of  t»  knows  for  certain 
sure,  but  he  lies  there  like  a  ^^tixA  man.  Conit  quirk,  foi 
the  love  of  goodness,  it"  you  want  to  do  any  service  I  '* 

"  lii  be  with  you  in  live  Tninutes,"  said  the  doctor,  leav* 
ing  the  room  to  order  liis  horse  and  don  his  hat  and  great 
coat. 

Dr.  Gale  wss  as  good  as  his  word.  In  less  than  ten  min- 
tites  he  and  the  gioom  were  flying  recklessly  along  to  llict- 
lord  Tuwer. 

"How  did  it  hapfjenj*'  asked  the  doctor,  hardly  able 
to  speak  for  the  furious  pace  at  which  they  were  going.  '*  X 
thought  he  was  at  Lady  Stckestone's  ball." 

"He  did  go,"  replied  the  groom;  "  leastways  he  took 
my  lady  there ;  but  he  said  he  had  a  friend  to  meet  from 
Loudon  at  the  Royal  (leorge  to-night,  and  he  rode  back. 
We  don't,  none  of  us,  know  how  it  happened  ;  for  a  better 
or  surer  rider  than  Sir  Noel  there  ain't  in  Devonshire ;  but 
Diana  must  have  slipped  and  threw  him.  She  came  gal- 
loping in  by  iiert>eif  about  half  au  hour  ago  all  blown ;  and 
me  and  three  more  set  off  to  lock  for  Sir  Noel  We  found 
him  atwut  twenty  yaids  from  the  gates,  lying  on  his  face  in 
the  mud,  and  as  stirf  and  cold  as  if  he  was  dead." 

"  And  you  brought  him  home  and  came  for  me?" 

"  Directly,  sir.  Some  wanted  to  send  word  to  my  lady ; 
but  Mrs.  Hilliard,  she  thought  how  you  had  beft  see  him 
first,  sir,  so's  we'd  know  what  danger  he  was  really  in  be- 
fore alarming  her  ladyship." 

"  Quite  right,  William.  Let  ns  tnist  it  n«ay  not  be  sen- 
Otis.  Had  Sir  Noel  been— I  mean,  I  suppose  he  had  been 
dining?" 

^  •"  Well,  doctor,"  said  vr'illiiua,  "  Arneaua,  tnat't  hii 


•d 


Sm  NOEL'S  HElti. 


tfoiey  de  thambre,  you  know,  said  he  thought  he  had  taken 
more  wine  than  was  prudent  going  to  Lady  Stokestone's 
ball,  which  her  ladyship  is  very  particular  about  such,  you 
know,  sir." 

**AhI  that  accounts,"  said  the  doctor,  thoughtfully; 
"and  now  Williantj,  my  man,  don't  let's  talk  any  more,  for 
I  feel  completely  blown  already." 

Ten  minutes'  sharp  riding  brought  them  to  the  great 
entrance  gates  of  Thetford  Towers.  An  old  v/oman  came 
out  of  a  little  lodge,  built  in  the  huge  masonry,  to  admit 
them,  and  they  dashed  up  the  long  winding  avenue  under 
the  surging  Jiks  and  chestnuts.  Five  minutes  more  and 
Dr.  Gale  was  running  up  a  polished  staircase  of  black,  slip- 
pery oak,  down  an  equally  wide  and  black  and  slippery 
passage,  and  into  the  chamber  where  Sir  i\oel  lay. 

A  grand  and  stately  chamber,  lofty,  dark  and  wainscoted, 
where  the  wax  candles  made  luminous  clouds  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  wood-fire  on  the  marble  hearth  failed  to  give 
heat.  The  oak  floor  was  overlaid  with  Persian  rugs ;  the 
windows  were  draped  in  green  velvet  and  the  chairs  were 
upholstered  in  the  same.  Near  the  center  of  the  apartment 
ttood  the  bed,  tall,  broad,  quaintly  carved,  curtained  in  green 
▼elvet,  and  on  it,  cold  and  lifeless,  lay  the  wounded  maii. 
Mrs.  Hilliard,  the  housekeeper,  sat  beside  him,  and  Ar- 
neaud,  the  Swiss  valet,  with  a  frightened  face,  stood  near 
the  fire. 

•"  Very  shocking  business  this,  Mrs.  Hilliard,"  said  the 
doctor,  removing  his  hat  and  gloves — "  very  shocking. 
How  is  he?    Any  signs  of  consciousness  yet  ? " 

**  None  whatever,  sir,"  replied  the  housekeeper,  rising. 
"I  am  so  thankful  you  have  come.  We,  none  of  us,  know 
what  to  do  for  him,  and  it  is  dreadful  to  see  him  lying 
Ibere  like  that." 

81ie  moved  away,  leaving  the  doctor  to  his  examination. 


0  SIJi  NOEVS  HEIR. 

Ten  ttinntes,  fifteen,  ^ve!lty  passed ,  then  Dr.  Gale  tcraed 

to  her  with  a  ver>  pale,  grave  lace. 

*'  li  IS  too  lace,  Mrs.  Hiiiiard.    Sir  Noel  ts  a  dead  man  I  •• 

«*  Dead  I  "  rei)eated  Mis.  liilliard,  tiembling  and  hold* 
ing  by  a  chair.    *'  Oh,  my  lady  !  my  ludy  I  '* 

"  I  am  going  to  bleed  him,"  said  the  doctor,  "to  restore 
consciousness.  He  mny  last  until  morning.  Send  foi 
Lady  'rheifovd  at  once." 

Arneaud  staiteU  up.  Mra.  Hiiiiard  lookexl  at  him,  wring* 
ing  her  hands. 

'« Break  it  gently,  Arneaud-  Oh,  my  lady  I  my  deaf 
lady !  So  young  and  so  pieUy — and  only  married  five 
months!" 

The  Swiss  valet  left  the  roont.  Dr.  Gale  got  out  hii 
lancet,  and  desired  Mrs.  Hiiiiard  to  hold  tlie  basin.  At 
first  the  blood  refused  to  (low — but  presently  it  came  in  a 
little,  feeble  stream.  Tlie  closed  eyelids  fluttered  ;  there 
was  a  restless  movement,  and  Sir  Koei  Tlietford  opened  his 
eyes  in  this  mortal  hie  once  more.  He  looked  first  at  the 
doctor,  grave  arid  pale,  then  at  the  housekeeper,  sobbing 
on  her  knees  by  the  bed.  He  was  a  young  man  of  seven- 
and-twenty,  fair  and  handsome,  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of 
the  Thetfcrds  to  be. 

**  What  is  it  ?  "  he  faintly  aijlced.  "  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

"  You  are  hurt,  Sir  Noel,"  the  doctr/  answered,  sadly ; 
*'  you  have  been  thrown  from  your  horse.  Don't  attempt 
to  move— you  are  rot  able." 

**  I  rememher — I  rcrii;etnber,**  said  the  young  man,  a 
gleam  of  recollection  lighting  np  his  gh&srly  face.    "  Diana 
dipped,  and  I  was  thrown.     How  long  ago  is  that? " 
*'  About  an  hour." 

**  And  I  am  hurt?    Badly?" 

Ee  fixed  his  eyes  with  a  powerful  lock  on  the  dactar^l 


SIX  NOEL  *S  HE  in,  f 

ftce,  and  that  good  loau  shiuuk  away  from  the  Dews  he 

musi-  tel!. 

"  Badly  ?  "  reiterated  the  young  bare  _v,  In  a  peremptory 
tone,  that  told  all  of  his  nature.  "  Ah  !  you  won't  speak, 
I  see  !  I  am,  and  I  feel — I  feel.  Doctor,  am  I  going  to 
die  ? '» 

He  asked  the  question  with  a  sudden  wildness — a  sudden 
horror  of  death,  half  stalling  up  in  bed.  Still  the  doctor 
did  not  speak: ;  still  Mrs.  Hilliard's  suppiessed  sobs  echoed 
in  the  stillness  of  the  vast  room. 

Sir  Noel  Thetford  fell  buck  on  his  pillow,  a  shadow  ai 
ghastly  and  awful  as  death  itself  lying  on  his  face.  But  ho 
was  a  brave  man  and  the  descendant  of  a  fearless  race ; 
and  except  for  one  convulsivfi  throe  that  shcx)k  him  from 
head  to  foot,  nothing  told  his  horror  of  his  sudden  fate. 
There  was  a  weird  pause.  Sir  Nool  lay  staring  straight  at 
the  oaken  wall>  his  bloodless  face  awful  in  its  intensity  of 
hidden  feeling.  Rnin  and  wind  outside  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  beat  clamorously  at  the  windows  j  and  stiU 
above  thera,  mighty  and  terrible,  rose  the  far-off  voice  of 
the  ceaseless  sea. 

The  doctor  was  the  first  to  speak,  in  hushed  and  awe- 
struck tones. 

**  My  dear  Sir  Noel,  the  time  is  short,  and  I  can  do  little 
or  nothing.     Shall  I  send  for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Knight?  " 

The  dying  eyes  turned  upon  him  with  a  steady  gaze.        • 

**  How  long  have  I  to  live  ?    I  want  the  truth." 

"Sir  Noel,  it  is  very  hard,  yet  it  must  be  Heaven's  wilL 
But  a  few  hours,  I  fear," 

**  So  soon  ?  "  said  the  dying  man.  "  I  did  not  think—— 
Send  for  Lady  Thetford,"  he  cried,  wildly,  half  raising 
himself  again — "send  for  Lady  Thetford  at  once  !  " 

"  We  have  sent  for  her/*  said  the  doctor;  "  she  will  be 


8 


SIR  h^OEL  'S  HETk. 


here  very  soon.    But  the  clergyman,  Sir  Noel— the  clc»g]^ 
man.    Shall  we  not  send  for  him  ?  " 

•'  No  !  ■  said  Sir  Noel,  sharply.  «•  What  do  I  want  of  • 
clergyman  ?  Leave  me,  both  of  you.  Stay,  you  can  give 
me  something,  Gale,  to  keep  up  my  strength  to  the  last?  I 
shall  need  it.  Now  go.  1  want  to  see  no  one  but  Lady 
Thetford." 

"My  lady  has  come!"  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  starting  to 
her  ,^t ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  opened  by 
Arneaud,  and  a  lady  in  a  sparkling  ball-dress  swept  in.  She 
stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  looking  from  face  to 
face  with  a  bewildered  air. 

She  was  very  young — scarcely  twenty,  and  unmistakably 
beautiful.  Taller  than  common,  willowy  and  slight,  with 
gieat,  dark  eyes,  flowing  dark  curls,  and  a  colorless  olive 
skm.  The  darkly  handsome  face,  with  pride  in  every  fea- 
ture, was  blanched  now  almost  to  the  hue  of  the  dying 
man's;  but  that  glittering,  bride-like  figure,  with  its  misty 
point-lace  and  blazing  diamonds,  seemed  in  strange  con- 
tradiction to  the  idea  of  death. 

•'My  lady !  my  lady  !  "  ciyed  Mrs.  Hilliard,  with  a  8up» 
pressed  sob,  moving  near  her. 

The  dt  ep,  dark  eyes  turned  upon  her  for  an  instant,  then 
wandered  back  to  the  bed  ;  but  she  never  moved. 

"Ada,"  said  Sir  Noel,  faintly,  "come  here.  The  rest 
of  you  go.    I  want  •      me  but  my  wife." 

The  graceful  figuu  i  its  shining  robes  and  jewels,  flitted 
over  and  dropped  on  its  knees  by  his  side.  The  other  three 
quitted  the  room  and  closed  the  door.  Husband  and  wife 
were  alone  with  only  death  to  overhear. 

"  Ada,  my  poor  girl,  only  five  months  a  wife— it  is  very 
hard  on  you ;  but  it  seems  I  must  go.  I  have  a  great  deal 
to  say  to  you,  Ada— that  I  can't  die  without  laying.    I 


S/Jf  NOEL'S  nE.R,  9 

lunre  been  a  villain,  Ada— the  greatest  villain  on  earth  to 
you." 

She  had  no*'  spoken.  She  did  not  si)eak.  She  knelt  be- 
side nun,  white  and  still,  looking  and  listening  with  strange 
calm.  There  was  a  sort  of  white  horror  in  her  tiite,  but 
very  little  of  tne  despauw.^,  ;<rief  one  would  naturally  look 
for  in  the  dying  man's  wife. 

"I  don't  ask  you  ♦o  lor^'ive  me,  Ada — I  have  wronged 
you  too  deeply  for  that ;  but  I  loved  you  so  dearly — so 
dearly  1  Oh,  my  God !  what  a  lust  and  cruel  wretch  I 
have  been." 

He  lay  panting  find  gasping  for  breath.  There  was  a 
draught  which  Dr.  Gale  had  left  standing  near,  and  ho 
made  a  motion  for  it.  She  held  it  to  his>  lips,  and  he  drank; 
her  hand  was  unsteady  and  spilled  it,  out  still  she  nevei 
•poke. 

'•  I  cannot  speak  loudly,  Ada,"  he  said,  in  a  husky 
lehisper,  "  my  strength  seetns  to  grow  less  every  moment; 
but  I  want  you  to  promise  me  before  I  begin  my  story  that 
you  will  do  what  I  ask.     Promise  !  promise  !  " 

He  grasped  her  wrist  and  glared  at  her  almost  fieicely. 
"  Promise  !  "  he  reiterated.     "  Promise  !  promise  I  " 
**  I  promise,"  slie  said,  with  white  lips. 
"  May   Heaven  deal  with   you,  Ada  Tlietford,  as  yoij 
keep  that  promise.     Listen  now." 

The  wild  night  wore  on.  TViC  cries  of  the  wind  in  the 
tre^  grew  louder  and  wilder  and  more  desolate.  The  rain 
beat  and  beat  against  the  curtained  glass;  the  candlea 
grettered  and  flared ;  and  the  wood-fire  flickered  and  died 
out. 

And  still,  long  afcei*  the  midnight  hour  had  tolled,  Ada, 
Lady  Thetford,  in  her  lace  and  silk  and  jewels,  knelt  be^ 
side  her  young  husband,  and  listened  to  the  dark  and 
shameful  story  he  had  to  tell.    She  never  once  faltered, 


to 


SIX  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


fhe  never  spoke  or  stirred ;  but  her  face  was  whiter  than 
her  dress,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  dilated  with  a  horror  too 
intense  for  words. 

The  voice  of  the  dying  man  sank  lower  and  lower— It 
fell  to  a  dull,  choking  whisper  at  last. 

"You  have  heard  all,"  he  said  huskily. 

Tojt  word  dropped  from  her  lips  like  ice— 'the  frozen  look 
of  blank  horror  never  left  her  face. 
•  "  And  you  will  keep  your  promise  ?  " 

"Yes." 

'*  God  bless  you  1  I  can  die  now  I  Oh,  Ada  I  I  cannot 
osk  you  to  forgive  me ;  but  I  love  you  so  much — so  much  I 
Kiss  me  once,  Ada,  before  I  go." 

"  His  voice  failed  even  with  the  words.  Lady  Thetford 
bent  down  and  kissed  him,  but  her  lips  were  as  cold  and 
white  as  his  own. 

They  were  the  last  words  Sir  Noel  Thetford  ever  spoke. 
The  restless  sea  was  sullenly  ebbing,  and  the  soul  of  the 
man  was  floating  away  with  it.  The  gray,  chill  light  of  a 
new  day  was  dawning  over  the  Devonshire  fields,  rainy  and 
raw,  and  with  its  first  pale  ray  the  soul  of  Noel  Thetford, 
baronet,  left  the  earth  forever. 

An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Hilliard  and  Dr.  Gale  ventured  to 
enter.  They  had  rapped  again  and  again  ;  but  there  had 
been  no  response,  and  alarmed  they  had  come  in.  Stark 
and  rigid  already  lay  what  was  mortal  of  the  Lord  of  Thet- 
ford Towers ;  and  still  on  her  knees,  with  that  frozen  look 
on  her  face,  knelt  his  living  wife. 

"My  lady  !  my  lady!  "  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  her  tears 
falling  like  rain.     "  Oh  !  my  dear  lady,  come  away  I  " 

She  looked  up ;  then  again  at  the  marble  form  on  the 
bed,  and  without  a  word  or  cry,  slipped  back  in  the  old 
housekeeper's  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 


1  : 


STR  A^£L'S  JI£n^, 


St 


CHAPTER  n. 


CAPT.  EVERARD, 


It  was  a  very  grand  and  stately  ceremonial,  that  funeraH 
procession  from  Thetford  Towers.  A  week  after  that 
stormy  December  night  they  laid  Sir  Noel  Thetford  in  the 
family  vault,  where  generation  after  generation  of  his  race 
slept  their  last  long  sleep.  The  gentry  for  miles  and  miles 
around  were  there,  and  among  them  came  the  heir-at-law, 
the  Rev.  Horace  Thetford,  only  an  obscure  country  curate 
now,  but  failing  male  heirs  to  Sir  Noel,  successor  to  the 
Thetford  estate  and  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 

In  a  bedchamber,  luxurious  as  wealth  can  malce  a  room, 
lay  Lady  Thetford,  dangerously  ill.  It  was  not  a  brain 
fever  exactly,  but  something  very  like  it  into  which  she  had 
fallen,  coming  out  of  the  death-like  swoon.  It  was  all 
very  sad  and  shocking — the  sudden  death  of  the  gay  and 
handsome  young  baronet,  and  the  serious  illness  of  his 
pool  wife.  The  Aineral  cration  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Knight, 
rector  -i  St.  Gosport,  from  the  text,  "  In  the  midst  of  life 
we  are  in  death,"  was  most  eloquent  and  impressive,  and 
women  with  tender  hearts  shed  tears,  and  men  listened 
with  grave,  sad  faces.  It  was  such  a  little  while — only  five 
short  months — since  the  wedding-bells  had  rung,  and  there 
had  been  bonfires  and  feasting  throughout  the  village ;  and 
Sir  Noel,  looking  so  proud  and  so  happy,  had  driven  up  to 
the  illuminated  hall  with  his  handsome  bride.  Only  five 
months ;  and  now — and  now. 

The  funeral  was  over  and  everybody  had  gone  back 
homt— everybody  but  the  Rev.  Horace  Thetford,  who  lui> ' 


12 


SIR  NOEL  *S  HEIR, 


It 


geted  to  see  the  result  of  my  lady's  illness,  and  if  she  died, 
to  take  possession  of  his  estate.  It  was  unutterably  dismal 
in  the  dark,  hushed  old  house,  with  Sir  Noel's  ghost  seem- 
ing to  haunt  every  room — very  dismal  and  ghastly  this 
waiting  to  step  into  dead  people's  shoes.  But  then  there 
was  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  the  finest  place  in  Devon- 
shire; and  the  Rev.  Horace  would  have  faced  a  whole  regi- 
ment of'  ghosts  and  lived  in  a  vault  for  that. 

But  Lady  Thetford  did  not  die.  Slowly  but  surely,  the 
fever  that  had  worn  her  to  a  shadow  left  her ;  and  by-and- 
bye,  when  the  early  primroses  peeped  through  the  first 
blackened  earth,  she  was  able  to  come  down -stairs — to 
come  down  feeble  and  frail  and  weak,  colorless  as  death 
and  as  silent  and  cold. 

The  Rev.  Horace  went  back  to  Yorkshire,  yet  not  en- 
tirely in  despair.  Female  heirs  could  not  inherit  Thetford 
— he  stood  a  chance  yet ;  and  the  widow,  not  yet  twenty, 
was  left  alone  in  the  dreary  old  mansion.  People  were  very 
sorry  for  her,  and  came  to  see  her,  and  begged  her  to  be 
resigned  to  her  great  loss;  and  Mr.  Knight  preached  end- 
less homilies  on  patience,  and  hope,  and  submission,  and 
Lady  Thetford  listened  to  them  just  as  if  they  had  been 
talking  Greek.  She  never  spoke  of  her  dead  husband — she 
shivered  at  the  mention  of  his  name  ;  but  that  night  at  his 
dying  bed  had  changed  her  as  never  woman  changed  be- 
fore. From  a  bright,  ambitious,  pleasure-loving  girl,  she 
had  grown  into  a  silent,  haggard,  hopeless  woman.  All 
the  sunny  spring  days  she  sat  by  the  window  of  her  boudoir, 
gazing  at  the  misty,  boundless  sea,  pale  and  mute — dead  in 
life. 

The  friends  who  came  to  see  her,  and  Mr.  Knight,  the 
rector,  were  a  little  puzzled  by  this  abnormal  case,  but  very 
sorry  for  the  pale  young  widow,  and  disposed  to  think  bet- 
ter of  her  than  ever  before.    It  must  surely  have  been  th« 


.-*«*» 


mmmm 


SrX  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


ta 


vflest  slander  that  she  had  not  cared  for  her  husband,  that 
■he  had  married  him  only  for  his  wealth  and  title ;  and 
that  young  soldier — that  captain  of  dragoons — must  have 
been  a  myth.  She  might  have  been  engaged  to  him,  of 
course,  before  Sir  Noel  came,  that  seemed  to  be  an  undis- 
puted fact ;  and  she  might  have  jilted  him  for  a  wealthier 
lover,  that  was  all  a  common  c^e.  But  she  must  have 
loved  her  husband  very  dearly,  or  she  never  would  have 
been  broken-hearted  like  this  at  his  loss. 

Spring  deepened  into  summer.  The  June  roses  in  the 
flower-gardens  of  the  Thetford  were  in  rosy  bloom,  and  my 
lady  was  ill  again — very,  very  i'i.  There  was  an  eminent 
physician  down  from  London,  and  there  was  a  frail  little 
mite  of  babyhood  lying  among  lace  and  flannel ;  and  the 
eminent  physician  shook  his  head,  and  looked  portentously 
grave  as  he  glanced  from  the  crib  to  the  bed.  Whiter  than 
the  pillows,  whiter  than  snow,  Ada,  Lady  Thetford,  lay, 
hovering  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death ;  that  other 
feeble  little  life  seemed  flickering,  too— it  was  so  even  a  toss 
up  between  the  great  rival  powers.  Life  and  Death,  that  a 
straw  might  have  turned  the  scale  either  way.  So  slight 
being  that  baby-hold  of  gasping  breath,  that  Mr.  Knight, 
in  the  absence  of  any  higher  authority,  and  in  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  mother,  took  it  upon  himself  to  baptize 
it.  So  a  china  bowl  was  brought,  and  Mrs.  Hilliard  held 
the  bundle  of  flannel  and  long  white  robes,  arid  the  child 
was  named — the  name  which  the  mother  had  said  weeks 
ago  it  was  to  be  called,  if  a  boy — Rupert  Noel  Vandeleur 
Thetford ;  for  it  was  a  male  heir,  and  the  Rev.  Horace's 
cake  was  dough. 

Days  went  by,  weeks,  months,  and  to  the  surprise  of  the 
eminent  physician  neither  mother  nor  child  died.  Summer 
waned,  winter  returned ;  and  the  anniversary  of  Sir  Noel's 
death  came  round,  and  my  lady  was  able  to  walk  down- 


14 


SIR  NOEL  *S  HEIR» 


Btairs,  shivering  in  the  warm  air  under  all  her  wraps.  She 
had  expressed  no  pleasure  or  thankfulness  in  her  owi.  safet/i 
or  that  of  her  child.  She  had  asked  eagerly  if  it  were  a 
boy  or  a  girl ;  and  hearing  its  sex,  had  turned  her  face  to 
the  wall,  and  lay  for  hours  and  hours  speechless  and  mo- 
tionless. Yet  it  was  very  dear  to  her,  too,  by  fits  and 
starts  as  it  were.  She  would  hold  it  in  her  arms  half  a  day, 
sometimes  covering  it  with  kisses,  with  jealous,  passionate 
love,  crying  over  it,  and  half  smothering  it  with  caresses ; 
and  then,  again,  in  a  fit  of  sullen  apathy,  would  resign  it 
to  its  nurse,  and  not  ask  to  see  it  for  hours.  It  was  very 
strange  and  inexplicable,  her  conduct,  altogether ;  more  es- 
pecially, as  with  her  return  to  health  came  no  return  of 
cheerfulness  and  hope.  The  dark  gloom  that  overshadowed 
her  life  seemed  to  settle  into  a  chronic  disease,  rooted  »nd 
incurable.  She  never  went  out ;  she  returned  no  visits ; 
she  gave  no  invitations  to  those  who  came  to  repeat  theirs. 
Gradually  people  fell  off;  they  grew  tired  of  that  sullen 
coldness  in  which  Lady  Thetford  wrapped  herself  as  in  a 
mantle,  until  Mr.  Knight  and  Dr.  Gale  grew  to  be  almost 
her  only  visitors.  **  Mariana,  in  the  Moated  Grange," 
never  led  a  more  solitary  and  dreary  existence  than  the 
handsome  young  widow,  who  dwelt  a  recluse  at  Thetford 
Towers  ;  for  she  was  very  handsome  still,  of  a  pale  moon- 
lit sort  of  beauty,  the  great,  dark  eyes,  and  abunc  ,  dark 
hair,  making  her  fixed  and  changeless  pallor  all  the  more 
remarkable. 

Months  and  seasons  went  by.  Summers  followed  win- 
ters, and  Lady  Thetford  still  buried  herself  alive  in  the 
gray  old  manor — and  the  little  heir  was  six  years  old.  A 
delicate  child  .still,  puny  and  sickly,  and  petted  and  spoiled, 
and  indulged  in  every  childish  whim  and  caprice.  His 
mother's  image  and  idol — no  look  of  the  fair-haired,  san- 
guiue,  blue-eyed  Thetford  sturdiness  in  bis  little,  pinched. 


SIR  NOEL'S  SrZTR, 


IS 


psfle  face,  large,  dark  eyes,  and  criiip,  black  ringlets.  The 
years  had  gone  by  like  a  slow  dream;  life  was  stagnant 
enough  in  St.  Gosport,  doubly  stagnant  at  Thetford  Towers, 
whose  mistress  rarely  went  abroad  beyond  her  own  gates, 
save  when  she  took  her  little  son, out  for  an  airing  in  the 
pony  phaeton. 

She  had  taken  him  out  for  one  of  those  airings  on  a  July 
afternoon,  when  he  had  nearly  a,ccomplished  his  seventh 
year.  They  had  driven  seaward  some  miles  from  the 
manor-house,  and  Lady  Thetford  and  her  little  boy  had  got 
out,  and  were  strolling  leisurely  up  and  down  the  hot, 
white  stands,  while  the  groom  waited  with  the  pony-phae- 
ton just  within  sight. 

The  long  July  afternoon  wore  on.  The  sun  that  had 
blazed  all  day  like  a  wheel  of  fire,  dropped  lower  and  lower 
into  the  crimson  v;  *■.  The  wide  sea  shone  red  with  the 
reflections  of  the  lurid  glory  in  the  heavens,  and  the  num- 
berless waves  glittered  and  flashed  as  if  sown  with  stars. 
A  faint,  far-oflf  breeze  swept  over  the  sea,  salt  and  cold ; 
and  the  fishermen's  boats  danced  along  with  the  red  sunset 
glinting  on  their  sails. 

Up  and  down,  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  the  lady  walked, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  wide  sea.  As  the  rising  breeze  met 
I  her,  she  drew  the  scarlet  shawl  she  wore  over  her  black 
silk  dress  closer  around  her,  and  glanced  at  her  boy.  The 
little  fellow  was  running  over  the  sands,  tossing  pebbles 
into  the  surf,  and  hunting  for  shells ;  and  her  eyes  left  him 
and  wandered  once  more  to  the  lurid  splendor  of  that  sun- 
set on  the  sea.  It  was  very  quiet  here,  with  no  living  thing 
in  sight  but  themselves ;  so  the  lady's  start  of  astonishment 
was  natural  when,  turning  an  abrupt  angle  in  the  path  lead- 
ing to  the  shore,  she  saw  a  man  coming  toward  her  over  the 
sands.  A  tall,  powerful-looking  man  ot  thirty,  bronzed 
and  handsome,  and  with  an  unmistakably  military  aiif 


immmijmx: 


x6 


STR  NOEL'S  HETR, 


although  in  plain  black  clothes.  The  lady  took  a  second 
look,  then  stood  stock  still,  and  gazed  like  one  in  a  dream. 
The  man  approached,  lifted  his  hat,  and  stood  silent  and 
grave  before  her. 

**  Captain  Everard  1 " 

"  Yes,  Lady  Thetford— after  eight  years— Captain  Ever- 
ard  again." 

The  deep,  strong  voice  suited  the  bronzed,  grave  face, 
and  both  had  a  peculiar  power  of  their  own.  Lady  Thet- 
ford, very,  very  pale,  held  out  one  fair  jeweled  hand. 

**  Captain  Everard,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again." 

He  bent  over  the  little  hand  a  moment,  then  dropped  it, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  silent. 

*'  I  thought  you  were  in  India,"  she  said,  trying  to  be 
xX  ease.     "  When  did  you  retitrn?  " 

"  A  month  ago.  My  wife  is  dead.  I,  too,  am  widowed, 
Lady  Thetford." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  fo  hear  it,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  Did 
she  die  in  India?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  have  come  home  with  my  little  daughter." 

**  Your  daughter !    Then  she  left  a  child  ?  " 

'*  One.  It  is  on  her  account  I  have  come.  The  climate 
killed  her  mother.  I  had  mercy  on  her  daughter,  and  have 
brought  her  home." 

•♦  I  am  sorry  for  your  wife.  "Why  did  she  remain  in 
India?" 

"  Because  she  preferred  death  to  leaving  mc.  She  loved 
me,  Lady  Thetford  !  " 

His  powerful  eyes  were  on  her  face — that  pale,  beautiful 
face,  into  which  the  blood  came  for  an  iiistant  at  his  words. 
She  looked  at  him,  then  away  over  the  darkening  sea. 

*»And  you,  my  lady— you  gained  the  desire  to  your 
heart,  wealth,  and  a  title  ?  Let  me  hope  they  have  madt 
you  a  happy  woman.' 


>t 


y. 


'■-sTtntftatv^^  . 


le^itensau^ 


It 

re 

n 

id 

ful 
!a. 

rat 
ydt 


'i'lzm  not  happy  !•• 

«*Nc?  But  you  have  been — ^you  were  whUe  Sir  Nod 
Uved?" 

"  My  husband  was  very  good  to  rae,  Captain  Everard. 
His  death  was  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could  have  be« 
fallen  me." 

*'  But  )'ou  are  young,  you  are  free,  you  are  rich,  you  ai» 
beautiful.     You  may  weai'  a  coronet  next  time." 

His  face  and  glance  were  so  darkly  grave,  that  the  covert 
sneer  was  s.lmost  hidden.     But  she  felt  it. 

*•  I  shall  never  marry  again.  Captain  Everardo" 

*'  Never?  You  surprise  me !  Six  years — nay,  seven,  & 
widow,  and  with  innumerable  attractions.  Oh,  you  cannot 
mean  it !  " 

She  made  a  sudden,  passionate  gesture — ^looked  at  Wm, 
then  away. 

*'  It  is  useless — ^worse  than  useless,  folly,  madness,  to  lift 
the  veil  from  the  irrevocable  past.  But  don't  you  think, 
don't  you,  Lady  Thetford,  that  you  might  have  been  equally 
happy  if  you  had  married  me  f" 

She  made  no  reply.  She  stood  gazing  seaward,  cold  and 
•HU. 

**  I  was  madly,  insanely,  absurdly  in  love  with  pretty 
Ada  Vandeleur  in  those  days,  and  I  think  I  would  have 
made  hei  a  good  husband  ;  better,  however — forgive  me— 
than  1  ever  made  my  poor  dead  wife.  But  you  were  wise 
and  ambitious,  ray  pretty  Ada,  and  bartered  your  black 
eyes  and  raven  ringlets  to  a  higher  bidder.  You  jilted  me 
in  cold  blood,  poor  love-sick  devil  that  1  was,  and  reigned 
resplendent  as  my  Lady  Thetford.  Ati  I  you  knew  how  to 
choose  the  better  part,  my  pretty  Ada  1  " 

**  Captain  Everard,  I  am  sorry  for  the  past — I  have 
fttoned,  if  suffering  can  atone.  Have  a  little  pity,  and  let 
alone  I  ** 


'*rn»i»a!»3?»ff'  ■ 


t$ 


STif  NOEL*S  IfJSIJt. 


'  He  stood  and  looked  at  her  silently,  gravely.  Then  6ald« 
in  a  voice  deep  and  calm : 

**  We  are  both  free  !    Will  you  marry  me  now,  Ada  1  *' 

*•  I  cannot !  " 

"  But  I  love  you — I  have  always  loved  you.  And  you— 
I  used  to  think  you  loved  me !  " 

He  was  strangely  calm  and  passionless,  voice  and  glance 
and  face.  But  Lady  Thetford  had  covered  her  face,  and 
was  sobbing. 

**,!  did — I  do — I  always  have !  But  I  cannot  matry  you. 
I  will  love  you  all  ray  life ;  but  don't,  don'/  ask  me  to  be 
your  wife ! " 

**  As  you  please  I  "  he  said,  in  the  same  passionless  voice. 
*•  I  think  it  is  best  myself;  for  the  George  Everard  of  to. 
day  is  not  the  George  Everard  who  loved  you  eight  years 
ago.  We  would  not  be  happy — I  know  that.  Ada,  is  that 
your  son  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  should  like  to  look  at  him.  Here,  my  little  baronet  I 
I  want  to  see  you." 

The  boy,  who  had  been  looking  curiously  at  the  stranger, 
ran  up  at  a  sign  from  his  mother.  The  tall  captain  lifted 
him  in  his  arms  and  gazed  in  his  small,  thin  face,  with 
which  his  bright  tartan  plaid  contrasted  harshly. 

**  He  hasn't  a  look  of  the  Thetfords.  He  is  your  own 
ion,  Ada.     My  little  baronet,  what  is  your  name?  *' 

"Sir  Rupert  Thetford,"  answered  the  child,  struggling 
to  get  free.     "  Let  me  go — I  don't  know  you  I" 

The  captain  set  him  down  with  a  grim  smile;  and  the 
boy  clung  to  his  mother's  skirts,  and  eyed  the  tall  stranger 
askance. 

«« I  want  to  go  home,  manmia !    I'm  tired  and  hungry," 

"  Pteaeutly,  dearest.     Run  to  Wiliiami  he  has  cake  foi 


Si)  '■ 


SIX  NOEL'S  NETR. 


»9 


yoOi  Captain  Everard,  I  shall  be  happy  to  have  you  at 
dinner." 

**  Thanks ;  but  I  must  decline.  I  go  back  to  London  Vo 
sight.     I  sail  for  India  again  in  a  week." 

*'  So  soon  I     I  thought  you  meant  to  remain." 

*-  Nothing  is  further  from  my  intentions.  I  »nerely  brought 
my  little  girl  over  to  provide  her  a  home  ;  that  is  why  I 
have  troubled  you.  Will  you  do  me  this  kindness,  Lady 
Thetford?  ' 

"Take  your  little  girl?  Oh,  most  gladly — most  will- 
ingly !  " 

*'  Thanks  !  Her  mother's  people  are  French,  and  I  know 
little  about  them;  and,  save  yourself,  I  can  claim  friendship 
with  few  in  England.  She  will  be  poor ;  I  have  settled  on 
her  all  I  am  worth — some  three  hundred  a  year;  and  you. 
Lady  Thetford,  you  can  teach  her,  when  she  grows  up,  to 
catch  a  rich  husband." 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  taunt ;  she  looked  only  too 
happy  to  render  him  this  service. 

•*  1  am  so  pleased  I  She  will  be  such  a  nice  companion 
for  Rupert.     How  old  is  sha?  " 

*<  Nearly  four." 

"Is  she  here?" 

"  No ;  she  is  in  London.  I  will  fetch  her  down  in  a  day 
or  two." 

"  What  do  you  call  her  ?  " 

'*  Mabel — after  her  mother.  Then  it  is  settled,  Lady 
Thetford,  I  am  to  fetch  her  ?  " 

** I  shall  be  delighted  !    But  won't  you  dine  with  me?  " 

"  No.  I  must  catch  the  evening  train.  Farewell,  Lady 
Thetford,  and  many  thanks  1  In  three  days  I  will  be  here 
again." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  walked  away.  Lady  Thetford 
watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  slowly,  as  she 


90 


S/X  NOEL  'J  IfE/X, 


heard  her  little  boy  calling  her  with  shrill  impatience.  The 
red  sunset  had  faded  out ;  the  sea  lay  gray  and  cold  under 
the  twilight  sky,  and  the  evening  breeze  was  chill.  Changes 
in  sky  and  sea  and  land  told  of  coming  night ;  and  Lady 
Thetford,  shivering  slightly  in  the  rising  wind,  hurried 
away  to  be  driven  home. 


CHAPTER  nL 

"LITTLE  MAY." 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  after  this  interview,  a 
fly  from  the  railway  drove  up  the  long,  winding  avenue 
leading  to  the  great  front  entrance  of  the  Thetford  man- 
sion. A  bronzed  military  gentleman,  a  nurse  and  a  li'.tle 
girl,  occupied  the  fly,  and  the  gentleman's  l^een,  dark  eyes 
wandered  searchingly  around.  Swelling  me:.dows,  velvety 
lawns,  sloping  terraces,  waving  trees,  bright  flower-gardens, 
quaint  old  fish-ponds,  sparkling  fountains,  and  a  wooded 
park,  with  sprightly  deer — that  was  what  he  saw,  all  bathed 
in  the  golden  halo  of  the  summer  sunset.  Massive  and 
grand,  the  old  house  reared  its  gray  head,  half  overgrown 
with  ivy  and  climbing  roses.  Gaudy  peacocks  strutted  on 
the  terraces ;  a  graceful  gazelle  flitted  out  for  an  instant 
amongst  the  trees  to  look  at  them  and  then  lied  in  afright; 
and  the  brrking  of  half  a  dozen  mastiffs  greeted  their  ap- 
proach noiivily. 

<«  A  fine  old  place,"  thought  Captain  Everard.  "  My 
pretty  Ada  might  have  done  worse.  A  grand  old  place  for 
that  puny  child  to  inherit.  The  staunch  old  warrior-blood 
of  the  Thetfords  is  sadly  adulterated  in  his  pale  veins,  I 
fancy.  Well,  my  little  May,  and  how  are  you  going  to  like 
aUthis?" 


Sm  JVOSt  *S  ''BBIK. 


The  child,  a  bright-faced  little  creature,  with  greal 
sparkling  eyes  and  rose-bloom  cheeks,  was  looking  in  do* 
light  at  a  distant  terrace. 

**  See,  papa  I  See  all  the  pretty  peacocks  1  Look,  El> 
Itn,"  to  the  nurse,  *'  three,  four,  five  I    Oh,  how  pretty  1 " 

"  Then  little  May  will  like  to  live  here,  where  she  can 
gee  the  pretty  peacocks  every  day  ?  " 

"  And  all  the  pretty  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the  littlA 
boy — Where's  the  little  boy,  papa?  '* 

**  In  the  house— you'll  see  him  presently ;  but  you  must 
be  very  good,  little  May,  and  not  pull  his  hair,  and  scratch 
bis  face,  and  poke  your  fingers  in  his  eyes,  like  you  used  to 
do  with  Willie  Brandon.  Little  May  must  learn  to  be 
good." 

Little  May  put  one  rosy  finger  in  her  mouth,  and  set  her 
head  on  one  side  like  a  defiant  canary.  She  was  one  of  the 
prettiest  little  fairies  imaginable,  with  her  pale,  flaxen  curls, 
and  sparkling  light-gray  eyes,  and  apple-blossom  complex* 
ion ;  but  she  was  evidently  a3  much  spoiled  as  little  Sir 
Rupert  Thetford  himself. 

Lady  Thetford  sat  in  the  long  drawing-room,  after  her 
solitary  dinner,  and  little  Sir  Rupert  played  with  his  rock* 
ing-horse  and  a  pile  of  picture-books  in  a  remote  corner. 
The  young  widow  lay  back  in  the  violet-velvet  depths  of  a 
carved  and  gilded  fauteuil,  very  simply  dressed  in  black 
and  crimson,  but  looking  very  fair  and  stately  withal.  She 
was  watching  her  boy  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face,  when 
a  footman  entered  with  Captain  Everard's  card.  I^dy 
Thetford  looked  up  eagerly, 

"  Show  Captain  Everard  up  at  once." 

The  footman  bowed  and  disappeared.  Five  minutes 
^ter,  and  ^he  tall  captain  and  his  little  daughter  stood  be« 
fore  her. 

**Ax  lastfaaid  Lady  Thetfocd,  rising  and  holding  out 


SIR  NOEL* S  HEIR. 


her  hanrl  to  her  old  lover,  with  a  smile  that  reminded  hioi 
of  other  oays — "  at  last,  when  I  was  growing  tiied  waiting. 
And  thii  ib  your  little  girl — my  little  girl  from  henceforth? 
Come  U?ie,  wy  pet,  and  kiss  your  new  mamma." 

She  bent  oicr  the  little  one»  kissing  the  pink  cheeks  and 
losy  lips. 

**  SUe  is  fair  and  tiny — a  very  fairy;  but  she  resemble^ 
you,  n^eitheless,  Capt.  Everard." 

*  *  In  teoi^per — yes, ' '  said  the  captain.  •«  You  will  find  het 
spoiled,  acd  willful,  and  cross,  and  capricious  and  no  end 
of  trouble.     Won't  she,  May  ?  " 

*'  She  will  be  the  better  match  for  Rupert  on  that  ac- 
count," Lady  Thetford  said,  smiling,  and  unfastening  little 
Miss  Evernrd's  wraps  with  her  own  fair  finge.-8.  "  Come 
here,  Ruptrt,  and  welcome  your  new  sister." 

The  young  baronet  approached,  and  dutifully  kissed  lit- 
tle May,  y;ho  put  up  her  rose-bud  mouth  right  willingly. 
Sir  Ruff-zt  Thetford  wasn't  tall,  rather  undersized,  and 
delicate  for  his  seven  years ;  but  he  was  head  and  shoulders 
over  the  flaxen-haired  fairy,  with  the  bright  gray  eyes. 

"  I  want  a  ride  on  your  rocking-horse,"  cried  little  May, 
fraternizing  with  him  at  once;  *<  and  oh  1  what  nice  picture 
booka  and  what  a  lot  1 " 

The  children  ran  off  together  to  their  distant  comer,  and 
Captain  Everard  sat  down  for  the  first  time. 

"  You  have  not  dined?  "  said  Lady  Thetford.     "  Allow 

>Tke  to **  her  hand  was  on  the  bell,  but  the  captain  in* 

tcrposed. 

'*  Many  thanks — ^nothing.  We  dined  at  the  village ;  and 
I  leave  again  by  the  seven-fifty  train.  It  is  past  seven  now, 
so  I  have  but  little  time  to  spare.  I  fear  I  am  putting  yon 
to  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  but  May's  nu»e  insists  on  being 
taken  back  to  London  to- night." 

*<  It;  will  be  of  no  consequence,"'  replied  Lady  Thetfiooli 


SIR  NOEt*S  HEIR. 


«s 


**  Rupert* 8  nnne  will  take  charge  of  her.  I  Intend  ti  ad- 
fertise  for  a  nuiacry  governess  in  a  few  days.  Rupert*! 
health  has  always  been  so  extremely  delicate,  that  he  haa 
not  even  began  a  pretext  of  learning  yet,  and  it  is  quite 
time.  He  grows  stronger,  I  fancy ;  but  Dr.  Gale  tells  me 
frankly  his  constitution  is  dangerously  weak." 

She  sighed  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  over  to  where  he 
Itood  beside  little  May,  who  had  mounted  the  rocking* 
horse  boy-fashion.    Sir  Rupert  was  expostulating. 

"You  oughtn't  to  sit  that  way — ask  mamma.  Voa 
ought  to  sit  side-saddle.     Only  lx>ys  sit  like  that." 

«*  I  don't  care  I  "  retorted  Miss  Everard,  rocking  more 
violently  than  ever.  <'  I'll  sit  whatever  way  I  like  1  Let 
me  alone  t " 

Lady  Thetford  looked  at  the  captain  with  a  smile. 

"  Her  father's  daughter,  surely  1  bent  on  having  her  own 
way.  What  a  fairy  it  is  !  and  yet  such  a  perfect  picture  of 
health." 

*'  Mabel  was  never  ill  an  hour  in  her  life,  I  believe," 
laid  her  father;  "  she  is  not  at  all  too  good  fot  this  world. 
I  only  hope  she  may  not  grow  up  the  torment  of  your  liff 
—she  is  thoroughly  spoiled." 

"  And  I  fear  if  she  were  not,  I  should  do  it.  Ah  1 1  ex. 
pect  she  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  a  world  of  goo(? 
to  Rupert.  He  has  never  had  a  playmate  of  his  own  years, 
and  children  need  children  as  much  as  they  need  sun 
shine."  ' 

They  sat  for  ten  minutes  conversing  gravely,  chiefly  on 
business  matters  connected  with  little  May's  annuity — not 
at  all  as  they  had  conversed  three  days  before  by  the  seap 
side.  Then,  as  half-T)ast  seven  drew  near,  the  captain 
arose. 

**I  must  go;  I  will  hardly  be  in  time  as  it  is.  Come 
kctt,  little  May»  and  bid  papa  good-bye." 


94 


srx  NOEL'S  imrR* 


♦'Let  papa  come  to  May,"  responded  his  daughter,  still 
rocking.     "  I  can't  get  off." 

Captain  Everard  laughed,  went  over,  bent  down  and 
kissed  her. 

*«  Good  bye,  May;  don't  forget  papa,  and  learn  to  be  a 
good  girl.  Good  bye,  baronet ;  try  and  grow  strong  and 
tall.     Farewell,  Lady  Thetford,  with  my  best  thanks." 

She  held  his  hand,  looking  up  in  his  sun-burned  face 
with  tears  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  We  may  never  nwet  again,  Captain  Everard,"  she 
said  hurriedly.  ♦*  Tell  me  before  we  part  that  you  forgive 
me  the  past." 

*'  Truly,  Ada,  and  for  the  first  time.  The  service  you 
have  rendered  me  fully  atones.  You  should  have  been  my 
child's  mother— be  a  mother  to  her  now.  Good-bye,  and 
God  bless  you  and  your  boy  I  " 

He  stooped  over,  touched  her  cheek  with  his  lips  rever- 
entially, and  then  was  gone.  Gone  forever — never  to  meet 
those  he  left  behind  this  side  of  eternity. 

Little  May  bore  the  loss  of  papa  and  nurse  with  philosoph- 
ical indifference — her  new  playmate  sufficed  for  both. 
The  children  took  to  one  another  with  the  readiness  of 
childhood — Rupert  all  the  more  readily  that  he  had  ne-er 
before  had  a  playmate  of  his  own  years.  He  was  naturally 
a  quiet  child,  caring  more  for  his  picture-books  and  his 
mirse's  stories  than  for  tops,  or  balls,  or  marbles.  But  be- 
lle May  Everard  seemed  from  the  first  to  inspire  him  with 
some  of  her  own  superabundant  vitality  and  life.  The 
child  was  never,  for  a  single  instant,  quiet ;  she  was  the 
most  restless,  the  most  inqDetuous,  the  most  vigorous  little 
creature  that  can  be  conceived.  Feet  and  tongue  and  hands 
never  were  still  from  morning  till  night ;  and  the  life  of  Sir 
Rupert's  nurse,  hitherto  one  of  idle  ease,  became  all  at  once 
a  misery  to  her.    The  little  girl  was  everywhere— every* 


s 


SIR  NOEL*S  HEIR, 


where  j  especially  where  she  had  no  business  to  be  j  and  nurse 
never  knew  an  easy  moment  for  trotting  after  her,  and  rescuing 
her  from  all  sorts  of  perils.  She  could  climb  like  a  cat,  or 
a  goat,  and  risked  her  nerk  about  twenty  times  per  diem ; 
she  sailed  her  shoes  in  the  soup  when  let  in  as  a  treat  to 
dinner,  and  washed  her  hands  in  her  milk-and-water.  She 
became  the  intimate  friend  of  the  pretty  peacocks  and  the 
big,  good-tempered  dogs,  with  whom,  in  utter  fearlessness, 
she  rolled  about  in  the  grass  half  the  day.  She  broke  young 
Rupert's  toys,  and  tore  his  picture-books  and  slapped  hi» 
face,  and  pulled  hia  hair,  and  made  herself  master  of  tl)« 
situation  before  she  had  been  twenty-four  hours  in  the 
house.  She  was  thoroughly  and  completely  spoiled  What 
India  nurses  had  left  undone,  injudicious  petting  and  flat- 
tery on  the  homeward  passage  had  completed — and  her 
temper  was  something  appalling.  Her  shrieks  of  passion  at 
the  slightest  contradiction  of  her  imperial  will  rang  through 
the  house,  and  rent  the  tortured  tympanums  of  all  who 
heard.  The  little  Xantippe  would  fling  herself  flat  on  the 
carpet,  and  literally  scream  herself  black  in  the  face,  until, 
in  dread  of  apoplexy  and  sudden  death,  her  frightened 
hearers  hastened  to  yield.  Of  course,  one  such  irictory  in- 
sured all  the  rest.  As  for  Sir  Rupert,  before  she  had  been 
a  week  at  Thetford  Towers,  he  dared  not  call  his  soid  his 
own.  She  had  partly  scalped  him  on  several  occasions,  and 
left  the  mark  of  her  cat-like  nails  'w  his  tender  visage  :  but 
her  venomous  power  of  screeching  for  hours  at  will  had 
more  to  do  with  the  little  baronet's  dread  of  her  than  any- 
thing else.  He  fled  ingloriously  in  every  battle — running 
in  tears  to  mamma,  and  leaving  the  fieli  and  the  trophies  ol 
victory  triumphantly  to  Miss  Everard.  With  all  this, 
when  not  thwarted — when  allowed  to  smash  toys,  and  dirty 
her  clothes,  and  smear  her  infantile  face,  and  tear  pictures, 
9nd  torment  inoffensive  lapdo^;  when  allowed,  inshort| 


J6 


SIX  NOEVS  heir^ 


to  follow  "  her  own  sweet  will,"  little  May  was  as  chatm* 
ing  a  fairy  as  ever  the  sun  shone  on.  Her  gleeful  laugh 
made  music  in  the  dreary  old  rooms,  such  as  had  never 
been  heard  there  for  many  a  day,  ?,nd  her  mischievous  antics 
were  the  delight  of  all  who  did  not  suffer  thereby.  The 
servants  petted  and  indulged  her,  and  fed  her  on  unwhole- 
some cakes  and  sweetmeats,  and  made  her  worse  and  worse 
every  day  of  her  life. 

Lady  Thetford  saw  all  this  with  inward  apprehension. 
If  her  ward  was  completely  beyond  her  power  of  control 
at  four,  what  would  she  be  a  dozen  years  hence  ? 

**Her  father  was  right,"  thought  the  lady.  "lam 
afraid  she  will  give  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  never 
saw  so  headstrong,  so  utterly  unmanageable  a  child." 

But  Lady  Thetford  was  very  fond  of  the  fairy  despot 
withal.  When  her  son  came  running  to  her  for  succor, 
drowned  in  tears,  his  mother  took  him  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  him  and  soothed  him — ^but  she  never  punished  the 
offender.  As  for  Sir  Rupert,  he  might  fly  ignominiously, 
but  he  never  fought  back.  Little  May  had  all  the  hair- 
pulling  and  face-scratching  to  herself. 

**  I  must  get  a  governess,"  nnised  lady  Thetford.  **  1 
may  find  one  who  can  control  this  little  vixen  ;  and  it  is 
really  time  Rupert  began  his  studies.  I  shall  speak  to  Mr. 
Knight  about  it." 

Lady  fhetford  sent  that  very  day  to  the  rectory  her  lady- 
ship's compliments,  the  servant  said,  and  wo''ld  Mr.  Knight 
call  at  his  earliest  convenience,  Mr.  Knight  sent  in  answer 
to  expect  him  that  same  evening ;  and  on  his  way  he  fell  in 
with  Dr.  Gale,  going  to  the  manor-house  on  a  professional 
visit. 

"Little  Sir  Rupert  keeps  weakly,"  he  said;  "no  con- 
stitution to  speak  of.  Not  at  all  like  the  Thetfords — splen- 
did old  stock,  the  Thetfords,  but  run  out — run  out.     Sir 


SIX  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


27 


Rupert  is  a  Vandeleur,  inherits  his  mother's  constitutioa— 1 
delicate  child,  very." 

"  Have  you  se.-n  I^dy  Thetford's  ward !  "  inquired  the 
clergyman,  smiling;  no  hereditary  weakness  there,  I  fancy. 
I'll  answer  for  the  streugth  of  her  lungs,  at  any  rate.  The 
other  day  she  wanted  Lady  Thetford's  watch  for  a  play- 
thing ;  she  couldn't  have  it,  and  down  she  fell  flat  on  the 
floor  in  what  her  nurse  calls  *  one  of  her  tantrums.'  You 
should  have  hcard  her,  her  shrieks  were  appalling." 

**I  have," said  the  doctor,  with  emphasis;  "she  has 
the  temper  of  tl.^  old  demon.  If  I  had  anything  to  do 
with  that  cl.  l;i,  1  should  whip  her  within  an  inch  of  her 
life — that's  all  she  wants,  lots  of  whipping !  The  Lord 
only  knows  the  future,  but  I  pity  her  prospective  hus- 
band !  " 

"The  taming  of  the  shrew,"  laughed  Mr.  Knight 
**  Katherine  and  Petruchio  over  again.  For  ray  part,  I 
think  Lady  Thetford  was  unwise  to  undertake  such  a  charge. 
With  her  delicate  health  it  is  altogether  too  much  for  her." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  shown  into  the  library,  whilst 
the  servant  went  to  inforni  his  lady  of  their  arrival.  The 
library  had  a  French  window  opening  on  a  sloping  lawn, 
and  here  chasing  butterflies  in  high  glee,  were  the  two 
children — the  pale,  dark-eyed  baronet,  and  the  flaxen- 
tressed  little  East  Indian. 

"Look,"  said  Dr.  Gale.  "Is  Sii*  Rupert  going  to  be 
your  Petruchio  ?  Who  knows  what  the  future  may  bring 
forth — who  knows  that  we  do  not  behold  a  future  Lady 
Thetford?" 

"  She  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  rector  thoughtfully,  "and 
she  may  change  with  years.    Your  proptiecy  may  be  ful- 
filled." 
.  The  present  Lady  Thetford  entered  as  he  spc^  She  had 


S8 


Sm  NOEL»S  HEIR, 


heard  the  remarks  of  both,  and  there  was  an  tinusual  pallot 
and  gravity  in  her  face  as  she  advanced  to  receive  them. 

Little  Sir  Rupert  was  called  in,  and  May  followed,  with 
a  butteifly  crushed  to  death  in  each  fat  little  hand. 

*«  She  kills  them  as  fast  as  she  catches  them,"  said  Sir 
Rupert,  ruefully.     "It's  cruel,  isn't  it,  mamma?" 

Little  May,  quite  unabashed,  displayed  her  dead  prizes, 
and  cut  short  the  doctor's  conference  by  impatiently  pull- 
ing her  play-fellow  away. 

**  Come,  Rupert,  come,"  she  cried.  **  I  want  to  catch 
the  black  one  with  the  yellow  wings.  Stick  your  tongue 
out  and  come." 

Sir  Rupert  displayed  his  tongue,  and  submitted  his  pulse 
to  the  doctor,  and  let  himself  be  pulled  away  by  May. 

••  The  gray  mare  in  that  span  is  decidedly  the  better 
horse,"  laughed  the  doctor.  **  What  a  little  despot  in  pin- 
afores it  is." 

When  her  visitors  had  left,  Lady  Thetford  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  watching  the  two  children  racing  in  the 
sunshine.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  but  the  lady's  face  was 
contracted  with  pain. 

**  No,  no,"  she  thought.  "  I  hope  not — I  pray  not. 
Strange!  but  I  never  thought  of  the  possibility  before. 
She  will  be  poor,  and  Rupert  must  marry  a  rich  wife,  so 
«ihat  :f-— " 

She  paused,  with  a  sort  of  shudder,  then  added : 

"<  What  will  he  think,  my  darling  boy,  of  his  father  and 
<oother  if  that  day  ever  comes? ' 


Iff 


SiS  NOEL^S  HEOL 


CHAPTER  IV. 


MRS.   WEYMORE. 

\^:/Q  *hiETFORD  had  settled  her  business  satisfactorilj 
with  the  r.'ctor  of  St  Gosport. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  opportune,"  he  said.  **  I  am 
going  to  London  next  week  on  business  which  will  detain 
me  upward  of  a  fortnight.  I  will  immediately  advertise 
for  such  a  person  as  you  want." 

'•You  must  understand,"  said  her  ladyship,  **  I  do  not 
require  a  young  girl.  I  wish  a  middle-aged  person — a 
widow,  for  instance,  who  has  had  children  of  her  own. 
Both  Rupert  and  May  are  spoiled — May  particularly  is  per- 
fectly unmanageable.  A  young  girl  as  governess  for  her 
would  never  do." 

Mr.  Knight  departed  with  these  instructions  and  the  fol- 
lowing week  started  for  the  great  metropolis.  An  adver- 
tisement was  at  once  inserted  in  the  Times  newspaper, 
stating  all  Lady  Thetford's  requirements,  and  desiring  im- 
mediate application.  Another  week  later,  and  Lady  Thet- 
ford  received  the  following  communication : 

'-  "  Dear  Lady  Thetford — I  have  been  fairly  besieged  with  appli. 
cations  for  the  p&at  week — all  widows,  and  all  professing  to  be  thor. 
oughly  competent.  Clergyman's  widows,  doctors'  widows,  officers* 
widows — all  sorts  of  widows.  I  never  before  thought  so  many  could 
apply  for  one  situation.  I  have  chosen  one  in  sheer  desperation — the 
widow  of  a  country  gentleman  in  distressed  circumstances,  who,  I 
think,  will  suit.  She  is  eminently  respectable  in  appearance,  quiet 
and  lady-like  in  manner,  with  five  years'  experience  in  the  nursery- 
governess  line,  and  the  highest  recommendation  from  her  late  em- 
ployers.   She  has  lost  a  child*  she  tells  me,  and  from  her  looks  and 


30 


SIR  NOEL*S  HETR, 


manner  oltogefher,  I  should  judge  she  was  a  person  coBvewant  wlO 
misfortune.  She  will  return  with  me  early  next  week — ^her  natie  if 
Mrs.  Weymore." 

Lady  Thetford  read  this  letter  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief 
—some  one  else  would  have  the  temper  and  outbreaks  of 
little  May  to  contend  with  now.  She  wrote  to  Captain 
Everard  that  same  day,  to  announce  his  daughter's  well- 
being,  and  inform  him  that  she  had  found  a  suitable  gov* 
erness  to  take  charge  of  her. 

The  second  day  of  the  ensuing  week  the  rector  and  the 
new  governess  arrived.  A  fly  from  the  railway  brought  her 
and  her  luggage  to  Thetford  Towers  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  she  was  taken  at  once  to  the  room  that  had  been  pre- 
pared for  her,  whilst  the  servant  went  to  inform  Lady  Thet- 
ford of  her  arrival. 

"  Fetch  her  here  at  once,"  said  her  ladyship,  who  was 
alone,  as  usual,  in  the  long  drawing-room  with  the  chil- 
dren, **  I  wish  to  see  her." 

Ten  minutes  after  the  drawing-room  door  was  flung  open, 
and  "  Mrs.  Weymore,  my  lady,"  announced  the  footman. 

Lady  Thetford  arose  to  receive  her  new  dependent,  who 
bowed  and  stood  before  her  with  a  somewhat  fluttered  and 
embarrassed  air.  She  was  quite  young,  not  older  than  my 
lady  herself,  and  eminently  good-looking.  The  tall^  slen* 
der  figure,  ';lad  in  widow's  weeds,  was  as  symmetrical  as 
lady  Thetford's  own,  and  the  full  black  dress  set  off  the 
pearly  fairness  of  the  blonde  skin,  and  the  rich  abundance 
of  fair  hair.  Lady  Thetford's  brows  contracted  a  little ; 
her  fair,  subdued,  gentle-looking,  girlish  young  woman, 
was  hardly  the  strong-minded,  middle-aged  matron  she  had 
expected  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of  obstreperous  May 
Everard. 

"  Mrs.  Weymore,  I  believe,"  said  Lady  Thetford,  resum- 
ing her  faufeuilf  "  pray  be  seated.    I  wished  to  see  you  at 


S/Ji  JVOEL*S  HEIk. 


S« 


mice,  because  I  am  t^oing  out  this  eveni'^g.  You  have  had 
five  years'  experience  as  a  nuxsery-governesSf  Mr.  Knight 
tells  me." 

•*  Yes,  my  kdy." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Mrs.  We3rmore's  low  voicei 
and  her  blue  eyes  shifted  and  fell  under  Lady  Thetford'S 
steady  and  somewhat  haughty  gaze. 

"  Yet  you  look  young — much  younger  than  I  imagined, 
or  wished." 

*'  I  am  twenty-seven  years  old,  my  lady." 

That  was  my  lady's  own  age  precisely,  but  she  looked 
half  a  dozen  years  the  elder  of  the  two. 

"  Are  you  a  native  of  London  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lady,  of  Berkshire." 

**  And  you  have  been  a  widow,  how  long?" 

What  ailed  Mrs.  Weymore?  She  was  all  white  and 
trembling — even  her  hands,  folded  and  pressed  together  in 
her  lap,  shook  in  spite  of  her. 

*'  Eight  years  and  more." 

She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  sob,  hysterically  choked. 
Lady  Thetford  looked  on  surprised,  and  a  trifle  displeased. 
She  was  a  very  proud  woman,  and  certainly  wished  for  no 
scene  with  her  hired  dependents. 

"Eight  years  is  a  tolerable  time,"  she  said,  cc)oU7<> 
"  You  have  lost  children  ?  " 

**One,  my  lady." 

Again  that  choked,  hysterical  soix  My  lady  went  on 
pitilesslv. 

"Is  it  long  ago?" 

"  When— when  I  lost  its  father?" 

**  Ah  1  both  together  ?  That  was  rather  hard.  Well,  I 
hope  you  unaerstand  the  management  of  childreno-spoiled 
ones  particularly.  Here  are  the  two  you  are  to  take  charg* 
oC    Rupert—May  come  here." 


!« 


SIR  NOEL'S  IfEJX, 


The  children  came  over  from  their  comer.  Mrs.  Wej^ 
more  drew  May  toward  her,  but  Sir  Rupert  held  aloof. 

"This  is  my  ward — this  is  my  son.  I  presume  Mr. 
Knight  has  told  you.  If  you  can  subdue  the  temper  of 
that  child,  you  will  prove  yourself,  indeed,  a  treasure. 
The  east  parlor  has  been  fitted  up  for  your  use ;  the  chil- 
dren will  take  their  meals  there  with  you ;  the  room  adjoin, 
ing  is  to  be  the  cchool-roon\.  I  have  appointed  one  of  the 
maids  to  wait  on  you.  I  trust  you  will  find  your  cbambei 
comfortable.'* 

**  Exceedingly  so,  my  lady." 

"  And  the  terms  proposed  by  Mr.  Knight  suit  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Weymore  bowed.  Lady  Thetford  rose  to  close  the 
interview. 

**  You  must  need  refreshment  and  rest  after  your  journey. 
I  will  not  detain  you  longer.  To-morrow  your  duties  will 
commence." 

She  rang  the  bell — directed  the  servant  who  came  to 
show  the  governess  to  the  east  parlor  and  see  to  her  wants, 
and  then  to  send  nurse  for  the  children.  Fifteen  minutes 
after  she  drove  away  in  the  pony-phaeton,  whilst  the  new 
governess  stood  by  the  window  of  the  east  parlor  and 
watched  her  vanish  in  the  amber  haze  of  the  August  sun  set. 

Lady  Thetford's  business  in  St.  Gosport  detained  her  a 
couple  of  hours.  The  big,  white,  August  moon  was  rising 
as  she  drove  slowly  homeward,  and  the  nightingales  sang 
its  vesper  lay  in  the  scented  hedge-rows.  As  she  passed 
the  rectory  she  saw  Mr.  Knight  leaning  over  his  own  gate 
enjoying  the  placid  beauty  of  the  summer  evening,  and 
I^ady  Thetford  reined  in  her  ponies  to  speak  to  him. 

**  So  happy  to  see  your  ladyship  !  Won't  you  alight  and 
£ome  in  ?    Mrs,  Knight  will  be  delighted." 

"Not  this  evening,  I  think.  Had  you  much  trouble 
libout  my  businem? ' 


iti 


SIX  NOi:L*S  HElk. 


SI 


^*I  had  applicant?  enough,  certainly,"  laughed  the  reo 
8or.  **  I  had  reason  to  remember  Mr.  Weller's  immortal 
idvice,  '  Beware  of  widders.'  How  do  you  like  your  gov- 
irnesi?" 

**  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  form  an  opinion.  She  is 
younger  than  I  could  desire." 

"  She  looks  much  younger  than  the  age  she  gives,  I 
know ;  but  that  is  a  common  case.  I  trust  my  choice  will 
prove  satisfactory — her  references  are  excellent.  Your 
ladyship  has  had  an  interview  with  her  ?  " 

**  A  very  brief  one.  Her  manner  struck  me  unpleasantly 
*— so  odd,  and  shy,  and  nervous.  I  hardly  know  how  to 
characterize  it ;  but  she  may  be  a  paragon  of  governesses, 
for  all  that.  Good  evening ;  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Knight. 
Call  soon  and  see  how  yonx  pro tigi  gets  on." 

Lady  Thetford  drove  away.  As  she  alighted  from  the 
pony-carriage  and  ascended  the  great  front  steps  of  the 
house,  she  saw  the  pale  governess  still  seated  at  the  window 
of  the  east  parlor,  gazing  dejectedly  out  at  the  silvery 
«ioonlight. 

"A  most  woeful  countenance,"  thought  my  lady. 
"  There  is  some  deeper  grief  than  the  lo?s  of  a  husband 
and  child  eight  years  ago,  the  matter  with  tnat  woman.  I 
don't  like  her." 

No,  Lady  Thetford  did  not  like  the  meek  and  submissive 
looking  gov.irness,  but  the  children  and  the  rest  oi  the 
ihousehold  did.  Sir  Rupert  and  little  May  took  to  her  at 
once — her  gentle  voice,  her  tender  smile  seemed  to  win  its 
way  to  their  capricious  favor ;  and  before  -he  end  of  the 
first  week  she  had  more  influence  over  them  than  mother 
and  nurse  together.  The  subdued  and  gentle  governess 
soon  had  the  love  of  all  at  Thetford  Towers,  ex-:ept  its 
misti-e3">;  uo.i  Mrs.  F.l'!iard,  <,:k  stately  housekeeper,  down. 
She  was  couiteous  aud  con^^iderate,  so  anxious  to  ava  i  gil^ 


V 


,572?  JVOEVS  HFm\ 


ing  trouble.  Above  all,  that  fixed  expression  of  hopelea 
trouble  on  her  sad,  pale  face,  inade  its  way  to  every  ucarL 
She  had  full  charge  of  the  children  now;  tbey  took  their 
meals  with  her,  and  she  had  them  in  her  keeping  the  best 
part  of  the  day — an  office  that  was  no  sinecure.  When 
they  were  with  their  nurse,  or  my  lady,  fhe  governess  sat 
alone  in  <he  east  parlor,  looking  out  dreamily  at  the  sum- 
mer landscape,  with  her  own  brooding  thoughts. 

One  evening  when  she  had  been  at  Thetford  Towers  over 
a  fortnight,  Mrs.  Hilliard,  coming  in,  found  her  sitting 
dreamily  by  herself  neither  reading  nor  working.  Th« 
children  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  her  duties  were 
over  for  the  day. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  dont  make  yourself  at  home  here," 
■aid  the  good-natured  housekeeper  ;  **  you  stay  too  much 
alone,  and  it  isn't  good  for  young  people  like  you." 

«*  I  am  used  to  solitude,"  repii<;:d  the  governess  with  i> 
smile,  that  ended  in  a  sigh,  "  and  I  have  grown  to  like  it 
Will  you  take  a  seat  ?  " 

•«  No,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard.  "  I  heard  you  say  the  other 
day  you  would  like  to  go  over  the  house ;  so,  as  I  have  « 
couple  of  hours  leisure,  I  will  show  it  to  you  ncvr." 

The  governess  rose  eagerly. 

*"'  I  have  been  wanting  to  see  it  so  much,"  she  said,  **bu3 
I  feared  to  give  trouble  by  asking.  It  is  very  good  of  yoif 
to  think  of  me^,  dear  Mrs.  Hilliard." 

"She  isn't  much  used  to  people  thinking  of  her,"  t©> 
fleeted  the  housekeeper,  '*  or  she  wouldn't  be  so  grateful 
for  trifles.  Let  me  see,"  aloud,  *'  you  have  seen  thff 
dtawing-room  and  library,  and  that  is  all,  er.cept  your  own 
apar  ments.  Well,  come  this  way,  I'll  show  you  the  oli 
•Quth  wing." 

Through  the  long  corridors,  up  wide,  blapV,  slippeif 
I.  into  vast,  unused  rooms,  where  ghostlljr  eduM* 


SIR  NOEL*S  HEIiU 


SI 


tnd  darkness  bad  it  all  to  themselves,  Mrs.  Hilliard  led  tiio 
governess. 

"  These  apartments  have  been  unused  since  before  the 
late  Sir  Noel's  time,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard  ;  **  his  father  kepi 
them  full  in  the  hunting  season,  and  at  Christmas  timo. 
Since  Sir  Noel's  death,  my  lady  has  shut  herself  up  and  re- 
ceived no  company,  and  gone  nowhere.  She  is  beginning 
to  go  out  more  of  late  than  she  has  done  ever  since  his 
death." 

Mrs.  Hilliard  was  not  looking  at  the  governess,  or  she 
might  have  been  surprised  at  the  nervous  restlessness  and 
agitation  of  her  manner,  as  she  listened  to  these  very  com> 
monplace  remarks. 

**  Lady  Thetford  was  very  much  attached  to  her  dusband, 
then  ?  "  Mrs.  Weymore  said,  her  voice  tremulous. 

"  Ah  1  that  she  was  I  She  must  have  been,  for  his  death 
nearly  killed  her.  It  was  sudden  enough,  and  shocking 
enough,  goodness  knows  I  I  shall  never  forget  that  dread- 
ful night.  This  is  the  old  banqueting-hall,  Mrs.  Weymore, 
the  largest  and  dreariest  room  in  the  house." 

Mrs.  Weymore,  trembling  very  much,  either  with  cold  or 
that  unaccountable  nervousness  of  hers,  hardly  looked  round 
at  the  vast  wilderness  of  a  room. 

*'  You  were  with  the  late  Sir  Noel,  then,  when  he 
died?" 

*'  Yes,  until  my  lady  came.  Ah  I  it  was  a  areadful 
thing  !  He  had  taken  her  to  a  ball,  and  riding  home  his 
horse  threw  him.  We  sent  for  the  doctor  and  my  lady  at 
once ;  and  when  she  came,  all  white  and  scared  like,  he 
sent  us  out  of  the  room.  He  was  as  calm  and  sensible  as 
you  or  me,  but  he  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind. 
My  lady  was  shut  up  with  him  for  about  three  hours,  and 
then  we  went  in — Dr.  Gale  and  rae.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  sad  sight    Poor  Sir  Noel  was  dead,  and  she  was  kneel- 


30 


Sm  KOEt*S  HETii, 


log  beside  hltn  in  her  ball  dress,  like  somebody  turned  in 
■tone.  I  spoke  to  her,  {ind  she  looked  up  at  me,  and  then 
fell  back  in  my  arms  in  a  fainting  iit.  Are  you  cold,  Mrsb 
Weymore,  that  you  shake  so?  "  ^ 

«  No — yes — it  is  this  desolate  room,  I  think."  the  go** 
emess  answered,  hardly  able  to  speak. 

"  It  is  desolate.  Come,  I'll  show  yon  the  billiard-room, 
and  then  we'll  go  up-stairs  to  the  room  Sir  Noel  died  in. 
Everjrthing  remains  just  as  it  was — no  one  has  ever  slept 
there  since.  If  you  only  knew,  Mrs.  Weymore,  what  a  sad 
time  it  was ;  l.ut  you  do  know,  poor  dear  I  you  have  lost  a 
husband  yourself ! " 

The  governess  flung  up  her  hands  before  her  face  with  a 
suppressed  cry  so  full  of  anguish  that  the  housekeeper  stared 
at  her  aghast.  Almost  as  quickly  she  recovered  herself 
again. 

**  Don't  mind  me,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice,  **  I 
can't  help  it.  You  don't  know  what  I  suffered — what  I  still 
suffer.     Oh,  pray,  don't  mind  me  1  " 

•*  Certainly  not  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  thinking 
Inwardly  the  governess  was  a  very  odd  person,  indeed. 

Th  jy  looked  at  the  billiard-room,  where  the  tables  stood, 
du'ty  and  disused,  and  the  balls  lay  idly  by. 

**1  don't  know  when  it  wil]  be  used  again/'  said  Mrs. 
Hilliard ;  **  perhaps  not  until  Sir  Rupert  grows  up.  There 
was  a  time,"  lowering  her  voice,  **  that  I  thought  he  would 
aever  live  to  be  as  old  and  strong  as  he  is  now.  He  was 
the  puniest  baby,  Mrs.  Weymore,  you  ever  looked  at — ^no- 
body thought  he  would  live.  And  that  would  have  been  a 
pity,  you  know ;  for  then  the  Thetford  estate  would  have 
gone  to  a  distant  branch  of  the  family,  as  it  would,  too,  if 
Bir  Rupert  had  been  a  little  girl." 

She  went  on  up-stairs  to  the  inhabited  part  of  the  build* 


S/Jt  NOEL'S  HIS  tit. 


Sf 


log,  followed  by  Mrs.  Weymore,  who  seemed  to  grow  more 
and  more  agitated  with  every  word  the  housekeeper  said. 

"This  is  Sir  Noel's  room,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  in  an 
awe-stnick  whisper,  as  if  the  dead  man  still  lay  there;  "no 
one  ever  enters  here  but  me." 

She  unlocked  it  as  she  spoke,  and  went  in.  Mrs.  Weyw 
more  followed,  with  a  face  of  frightened  pallor  that  struck 
even  the  housekeeper. 

"  Good  gracious  me  I  Mrs.  Weymore,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter? You  are  as  pib  as  a  ghost.  Are  you  afraid  to  enter 
a  room  where  a  pt;  son  has  died  ?  " 

Mrs.  Weynj  le'b  i  eply  was  almost  inaudible ;  she  stood 
on  the  threshold,  puilid,  trembling,  unaccountably  moved. 
The  housekeeper  glanced  at  her  suspiciously. 

"  Very  odd,"  she  thought,  "  very  I  The  new  governess 
is  either  the  most  nervous  person  1  ever  met,  or  else — no, 
she  can't  have  known  Sir  Noel  in  his  lifetime.  Of  course 
not." 

They  left  the  chamber  after  a  cursory  glance  around— 
Mrs.  Weymore  never  advancing  beyond  the  threshold.  She 
had  not  spoken,  and  tliat  while  pallor  made  her  face  ghastly 
stiU. 

"  I'll  show  you  the  picture-gnllery,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard ; 
"  and  then,  I  believe,  you  wiii  ha\re  seen  all  that  is  worth 
seeing  at  Thetford  Towers." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  long,  high-lighted  room,  wainscoted 
and  antique,  like  all  the  rest,  where  k  ng  rows  of  dead  and 
gone  Thetfords  looked  down  from  the  carved  walls.  There 
were  knights  in  armor,  countesses  in  ruffles  and  powder 
and  lace,  bishops  in  mitre  on  head  and  crozier  in  hand, 
and  judges  in  gown  and  wig.  There  were  lames  in  pointed 
stomachers  and  jeweled  fans,  with  the  ^v3ists  of  theii  dresses 
under  their  arms,  but  all  fair  and  handsome,  and  unmistak- 
ably  alike.    Last  of  all  the  long  array,  there  was  Sir  Noel» 


fi 


S/S  JiTOISL'S  HETR. 


9.  fair-haired,  handsome  youlti  of  twenty,  with  a  stnile  on 
his  face  and  a  happy  radiance  i.i  his  blue  eyes.  And  by 
bis  side,  dark  and  haughty  and  beautiful,  was  my  lady  in 
her  bridal-robes. 

*'  There  is  not  a  handsomer  face  amongst  them  all  thaai 
my  kdy's,"  said  Mrs.  Milliard,  with  pride.  **  You  ough) 
to  have  seen  her  when  Sir  Noel  first  brought  her  home :  ish^ 
tvas  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  ever  looked  at.  Ah  !  it 
tiras  such  a  pity  he  was  killed.  I  suppose  they'll  be  having 
Sir  Rupert's  taken  next  and  hung  beside  her.  He  don't 
look  much  like  the  Thetfords ;  he's  his  mother  over  again 
— ^a  Vendeleur,  dark  and  still." 

If  Mrs.  Weymore  made  any  reply  the  housekeeper  did 
not  catch  it ;  she  was  standing  with  her  face  averted,  hardly 
looking  at  the  portraits,  and  was  the  first  to  leave  the  pict- 
ure-gallery. 

There  were  a  kw  more  rooms  to  be  seen — a  drawing- 
room  suite,  now  closed  and  disused ;  an  ancient  library, 
with  a  wonderful  stained  window,  and  avast  echoing  recep- 
tion-room. But  it  was  all  over  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Hilliard, 
with  her  keys,  trotted  cheerfully  off;  and  Mrs.  Weymore 
was  left  to  solitude  and  her  own  thoughts  once  more. 

A  strange  person,  certainly.  She  locked  the  door  and 
fell  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  sobbing  until  her 
whole  form  was  convulsed. 

•*  Oh  I  why  did  I  come  here ?  Why  did  I  come  here? " 
came  passionately  with  the  wild  storm  of  sobs.  "  I  might 
have  known  how  it  would  be  1  Nearly  nine  years— nine 
lcne„  long  years,  and  not  to  have  forgotten  yet  1 


i> 


■m 


SIS  NOEL^S  HMIJL 


39 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  JOURNEy  TO  LONDOW. 

Very  slowly,  very  monotonously  went  life  at  Thetford 
Towers.  The  only  noticable  change  and  that  my  lady 
went  rather  more  into  society,  and  a  greater  number  of 
visitors  came  to  the  manor.  There  had  been  a  children's 
party  on  the  occasion  of  Sir  Rupert's  eighth  birthday,  and 
Mrs.  Weymore  had  played  for  the  little  people  to  dance; 
and  my  lady  had  cast  off  her  chronic  gloom,  had  been 
handsome  and  happy  as  of  old.  There  had  been  a  dinner- 
party later — an  imprecedented  event  now  at  Thetford 
Towers  ;  and  the  weeds,  worn  so  long,  had  been  discarded, 
and  in  diamonds  and  black  velvet  Lady  Ada  Tnetford  had 
been  beautiful,  and  t^tately,  and  gracious,  as  a  young  queen. 
No  one  knew  the  reason  of  the  sudden  change,  but  they  ac- 
cepted the  fact  just  as  they  found  it,  and  set  it  down,  per- 
haps, to  woman's  caprice.   ^ 

So  slowly  the  summer  passed  :  autumn  came  and  went, 
and  it  was  December,  and  the  ninth  anniversary  of  Sir 
Noel's  death. 

A  gloomy  day — wet,  and  wild,  and  wmdy.  The  wind, 
sweeping  over  the  angry  sea,  surged  and  roared  through 
the  skeleton  trees  ;  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  in  rattling 
gusts ;  and  the  leaden  sky  hung  !ow  and  frowning  over  the 
drenched  and  dreary  earth.  A  dismal  day — very  like  that 
other,  nine  years  ago,  that  had  been  Sn-  Noel's  last. 

In  Lady  Thetford's  boudoir  a  brigJit-ref'  coal  fire  blazed. 
Pale-blue  curtains  of  satin  damask  shut  ot.i  the  wintry  pros- 
pect, and  the  softest  and  richest  of  foreign  carpets  hushed 


^ 


SIK  JffOBL  '&'  NEtB. 


every  footfall.  Before  the  fire,  on  a  little  table,  tny  1ady*» 
breakfast  temptingly  stood  j  the  silver,  old  and  quaint  j  the 
rare  antique  porcelain  sparkling  in  the  ruddy  firelight.  An 
easy  chair,  caived  and  gilded,  and  cushioned  in  azure  vel- 
vet, stood  by  the  table  ;  and  near  my  lady's  plate  lay  the 
letters  and  papers  the  morning's  mail  had  brought. 

A  toy  of  a  clock  on  the  low  marble  mantle  chimed  mus- 
ically ten  as  my  lady  entered.  7n  dainty  morning 
negligte,  with  her  dark  hair  rippliii^  n  ,  Ailing  low  on  her 
neck,  she  looked  very  young,  and  fair,  and  graceful.  Be- 
hind her  came  her  maid,  a  olooming  English  girl,  who  took 
off  the  cover  and  poured  out  my  lady's  chocolate. 

Lady  Thetford  sank  languidly  into  the  azure  velvet 
depths  oihtt /aufenuii,  and  took  up  her  letters.  There  were 
three— one  a  note  from  her  man  of  business  j  one  an  invi- 
tation to  a  dinner-party ;  and  the  third,  a  big  official-look- 
ing document,  with  a  huge  seal,  and  no  end  of  postmarks. 
The  languid  eyes  suddenly  lighted ;  the  pale  cheeks  flushed 
as  she  took  it  eagerly  up.  It  was  a  letter  from  Inf!ia  from 
Capt.  Everard. 

Lady  Thetford  sipped  her  chocolate,  and  r-r  .  Yn  ietter 
leisurely,  with  her  slippered  feet  on  the  shinir  ,■:  .r.    It 

was  a  long  letter,  and  she  read  it  over  slowly  twi<:  ..  htee 
times,  before  she  laid  it  down.  She  finished  her  breakiast, 
motioned  her  maid  to  remove  the  service,  and  lying  back 
in  her  chair,  with  her  deep,  dark  eyes  fixed  dreamily  on 
the  fire,  she  fell  into  a  reverie  of  other  days  far  gone.  The 
lover  of  her  girlhood  came  back  to  her  from  over  the  sea. 
He  was  lying  at  her  feet  once  more  in  the  long  summer 
days,  under  the  waving  trees  of  her  girlhocct  .  -lorne.  Ah, 
how  happy  I  how  happy  she  had  been  iu  ''  se  by-p;one 
days,  before  Sir  Noel  Thetford  had  come,  wuh  his  wealth 
and  his  title,  to  tempt  her  from  her  love  and  truth. 

Eleven  (Ftruck,  twelve  itor:^  the  musical  dock  od  tbt 


Sm  NOEL  *S'HEm  — 


4t 


flumtle,  and  still  my  lady  sat  living  in  the  past.  Outside 
the  wintry  storm  raged  on;  the  rain  clamored  against  the 
curtained  glass,  and  the  wind  worried  the  trees.  With  a 
long  sigh  my  lady  awoke  from  her  dream,  and  mechanic- 
itUy  took  up  the  Times  newspaper — the  first  of  the  little 
iieap. 

"Vain!  vain  I"  she  thought,  dreamily;  "worse  than 
vain  those  dreams  now.  With  my  own  hand  I  threw  back 
the  heart  that  loved  me ;  of  my  own  free  will  I  resigned 
the  man  I  loved.  And  now  the  old  love,  that  I  thought 
teould  die  in  the  splendor  of  my  new  life,  is  stronger  than 
ever — and  it  is  nine  years  too  late." 

She  tried  to  wrench  her  thoughts  away  and  fix  them  on 
her  newspaper.  In  vain !  her  eyes  wandered  aimlessly 
over  the  closely-printed  columns— her  mind  was  in  India 
with  Capt.  Everard.  All  at  once  she  started,  uttered  a  sud- 
den, sharp  cry,  and  grasped  the  paper  with  dilated  eyes  and 
whitening  cheeks.  At  the  top  of  a  column  of  "  personal" 
advertisements  was  one  which  her  strained  eyes  literally  de- 
voured. 

"  If  Mr.  Vyking,  who  ten  years  ago  left  a  male  infant  in  charge  cA 
Mrs.  Martha  Brand,  wishes  to  keep  that  child  cut  of  the  workhouse, 
he  will  call,  within  the  next  five  days,  at  No.  17  Wadington  Street, 
Lambeth." 


Again  and  again,  and  again  Lady  Thetford  read  this  ap- 
parently uninteresting  advertisement.  Slowly  the  paper 
dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  sat  staring  blankly  into  the 
fire. 

*'  At  last  I "  she  thought,  '*  at  last  it  has  come.  I  fancied 
all  danger  was  over — the  death,  perhaps,  had  forestalled 
me;  and  now,  after  all  these  years,  I  am  summoned  to 
keep  my  broken  promise  !  " 

The  hue  of  death  had  settled  on  her  face ;  8he«at  cold 


4* 


SrH  JVOEL*S  HEHt, 


and  rigid,  staring  with  that  blank,  fixed  gaze  into  the  fita 
Ceaselessly  beat  the  rain  ;  wilder  grew  the  December  day  j 
steadily  the  moments  wore  on,  and  still  she  sat  in  thai  fixed 
trance.  The  armula  clock  struck  two — the  sound  aroused 
hex  at  last. 

**  I  must !  "  she  said,  setting  her  teeth.  **  I  will  I  My 
boy  shall  not  lose  his  birthrign.,  come  what  may  I " 

She  rose  and  rang  the  bell — very  pale,  but  icily  calm. 
Her  maid  answered  the  summons. 

"  Eliza,"  my  lady  asked,  "  at  what  hour  does  the  after- 
noon train  leave  St.  Gosport  for  London  1 " 

Eliza  stared — did  not  know,  but  would  ascertain.  &i 
five  minutes  she  was  back. 

"  -^t  half-past  three,  my  lady ;  and  another  at  seven." 

Lady  Thetford  glanced  at  the  clock — it  was  a  quarter 
past  two. 

"Tell  William  to  have  the  carriage  at  the  door  at  a 
quarter  past  three ;  and  do  you  pack  my  dressing  case,  and 
the  few  things  I  shall  need  for  two  or  three  days'  absence. 
I  am  going  to  London." 

Eliza  stood  for  a  moment  quite  petrified.  In  all  the  nine 
years  of  her  service  under  my  lady,  no  such  ordci  as  this 
had  ever  been  received.  To  go  to  London  at  a  moment's 
notice — my  lady,  who  rarely  went  beyond  her  own  park 
gates  !  Turning  away,  not  quite  certain  that  her  ears  had 
not  deceived  her,  my  lady's  voice  arrested  her. 

"Send  Mrs.  Weymore  to  me  j  and  do  you  lose  no  time 
in  packing  up." 

Eliza  departed.  Mrs.  Weymore  appeared.  My  lady  had 
some  instructions  to  give  concerning  the  children  during 
her  absence.  Tlien  the  governess  was  dismissed,  and  she 
was  again  alone. 

Through  the  wind  and  rain  of  the  wintry  storm,  Lady 
Thetford  was  driven  to  the  station*  in  time  to  catch  tt^ 


SIR  NOEL*S  HEIR. 


43 


three-fifty  train  to  the  metropolis.  She  went  unattended  j 
with  no  message  to  any  one,  only  saying  she  would  be  back 
in  three  days  at  the  furthest. 

In  that  dull  household,  where  so  few  events  ever  dis- 
turbed the  stagnant  quiet,  this  sudden  journey  produced  an 
indescribable  sensation.  What  could  have  taken  my  lady 
to  London  at  a  moment's  notice  ?  Some  urgent  reason  it 
must  have  been  to  force  her  out  of  the  gloomy  seclusion  in 
which  she  had  buried  herself  since  her  husband's  death. 
But,  discuss  it  as  they  might,  they  could  come  no  nearer 
the  heart  of  the  mystery. 


CHAPTER  VL 


GUY. 

i 

The  rainy  December  day  closed  in  a  rainier  night.  An- 
other day  dawned  on  the  world,  sunless,  and  chilly,  and 
overcast  stiil. 

It  dawned  on  London  in  murky,  yellow  fog,  on  sloppy, 
muddy  streets — in  gloom  and  dreariness,  and  a  raw,  east- 
erly wind.  In  the  densely  populated  streets  of  the  district 
of  Lambeth,  where  poverty  huddled  in  tall,  gaunt  build- 
ings, the  dismal  light  stole  murkily  and  slowly  over  the 
crowded,  filthy  streets  and  swarming  purlieus. 

In  a  small  upper  room  of  a  large  dilapidated  house,  this 
bad  December  morning,  a  painter  stood  at  his  easel.  The 
room  was  bare  and  cold,  and  comfortless  in  the  extreme ; 
the  painter  was  middle-aged,  small,  brown  and  shriveled, 
and  very  much  out  at  elbows.  The  dull,  gray  light  fell  full 
on  his  work — no  inspiration  of  genius  by  any  means — only 
fee  portrait,  coarsely  colored,  of  a  fat,  well-to-do  butcher's 
daughter  round  the  corner.    The  man  was  Joseph  Legard« 


44 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


scene-painter  to  one  of  the  minor  city  theatres,  who  eked 
out  his  slender  income  by  painting  portraits  when  be  could 
/a;et  them  to  paint.  He  was  as  fond  of  his  art  as  any  of  the 
great,  old  masters ;  but  he  had  only  one  attribute  in  com- 
mon with  those  immortals — extreme  poverty ;  for  his  salary 
was  not  large,  and  Mr.  Legard  found  it  a  tight  fit,  indeed, 
to  "make  both  ends  meet." 

So  he  stood  over  his  work  this  dull  morning,  however,  in 
his  tireless  room,  with  a  cheerful,  brown  face,  whistling  a 
tune.  In  the  adjoining  room  he  could  hear  his  wife's  voice 
raised  shrilly,  and  the  cries  of  half  a  dozen  Legards.  He 
was  used  to  it,  and  it  did  not  disturb  him ;  and  he  painted 
and  whistled  cheerily,  touching  up  the  butcher's  daughter's 
snub  nose  and  fat  cheeks  and  double  chin,  until  light  foot> 
steps  came  running  up-stairs,  and  the  door  was  flung  wide 
by  an  impetuous  hand.  A  boy  of  ten,  or  thereabouts,  came 
in— a  bright-eyed,  fair-haired  lad,  with  a  handsome,  reso- 
lute face,  and  eyes  of  cloudless,  Saxoi^  blue.  . 

"  Ah,  Guy  I  "  said  the  scene-painter,  turning  round  and 
nodding  good-humoredly.  *'  I've  been  expecting  you  I 
Wnat  do  you  think  of  Miss  Jenkins  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  at  the  picture  with  the  glance  of  an  em* 
bryo  connoisseur. 

"  It's  as  like  her  as  two  peas,  Joe ;  or  would  be,  if  her 
hair  was  a  little  redder,  and  her  nose  a  little  thicker,  and 
the  freckles  were  plainer.     But  it  looks  like  her  as  it  is." 

"  V/ell,  you  see,  Guy,"  said  the  painter,  going  on  with 
Miss  Jenkins's  left  eyebrow,  *'  it  don't  do  to  make  'em  too 
true— people  don't  like  it ;  they  pay  their  money,  and  they 
expect  to  take  it  out  in  good  looks.  And  now,  any  news 
this  morning,  Guy  ?  " 

The  boy  leaned  against  the  window  and  looked  out  into 
the  dingy  street,  his  bright,  young  face  growing;  gloomy  and 
ovexcast. 


Srx  NOEl*S  HEIR, 


41 


"No,"  he  said,  moodily;  "there  is  no  news,  excepi 
<hat  Phil  Darking  was  drunk  last  night,  and  savage  as  a 
mad  dog  this  morning — and  that's  no  news,  I'm  sure  I " 

"And  nobody's  come  about  the  advertisement  in  the 
Times  f  " 

**  No,  aud  never  will.  It's  all  humbug  what  granny  says 
about  my  belonging  to  anybody  rich ;  if  I  did,  they'd  have 
seen  after  me  long  ago.  Phil  says  my  mother  was  a  house- 
maid, and  my  father  a  valet — and  they  were  only  too  glad 
to  get  me  off  their  hands.  Vyking  was  a  valet,  granny  says 
she  knows;  and  it's  not  likely  he'll  turn  up  after  all  these 
years.  I  don't  care,  I'd  rather  go  to  the  work-house ;  I'd 
rather  starve  in  the  streets,  than  live  another  week  with  Phil 
Darking." 

The  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  dashed  them  pas- 
sionately away.  The  painter  looked  up  with  a  distressed 
face. 

"  Has  he  been  beating  you  again,  Guy  ?  " 

•*  It's  no  matter — he's  a  brute  1  Granny  and  Ellen  are 
sorry,  and  do  what  they  can ;  but  that's  nothing.  I  wish 
1  had  never  been  born  !  " 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  the  painter,  compassionately,  "  buS: 
keep  up  heart,  Guy ;  if  the  worst  comes,  why  you  can  stop 
here  and  take  pot-luck  with  the  rest — not  that  that's  much 
better  than  starvation.  You  can  take  to  my  business  shortly, 
now ;  and  you'll  make  a  better  scene-painter  than  ever  I 
oould.    You've  got  it  in  you." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Joe?"  cried  the  boy,  with 
sparkling  eyes.  '*  Do  you  ?  I'd  rather  be  an  artist  than  a 
Wng Halloo!" 

He  stopped  short  in  surprise,  staring  out  of  the  window. 
Legard  looked.  Up  the  dirty  street  came  a  h^ndaome  cab, 
and  stopped  at  their  own  door.  The  driver  arghted,  made 
some  inquiry,  then  opened  the  cab-door,  and  9  lady  stepped 


46 


SIR  NOEL'S  HErR. 


Eli 


Pi 
Ii 


lightly  out  on  the  curb-stone — a  lady,  tall  and  Stately^ 

dressed  in  black  and  closely  veiled. 

"Now,  who  can  this  visitor  be  for?"  said  Legard. 
**  People  in  this  neighborhood  ain't  in  the  habit  of  having 
morning  calls  made  on  them  iu  cabs.  She's  coming  up- 
stairs !  " 

He  held  the  door  open,  listening.  The  lady  ascended 
tlie  first  flight  of  stairs,  stopped  on  the  landing,  and  in- 
quired of  some  one  for  "  Mrs.  Martha  Brand." 

"  For  granny  1  "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  Joe,  I  shouldn't 
tronder  if  ii;  was  some  one  about  that  advertisement,  aftet 
alll" 

**  Neitlher  should  I,"  said  Legard.  "  There  1  she's  gono 
lo.     Yju'U  be  sent  for  directly,  Guy  !  " 

Y^,  the  lady  had  gone  in.  She  had  encountered  on  the 
landing  a  sickly  young  woman  with  a  baby  in,  her  arms, 
who  had  stared  at  the  name  she  inquired  for. 

"Mrs.  Martha  Brand?  Why,  that's  mother  I  Walk  in 
this  way,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  ushered  the  veiled  lady  into  a 
ajmall,  close  room,  poorly  furnished.  Over  a  smouldering 
fire,  mending  stockings,  sat  an  old  woman,  who,  notwith- 
standing the  extreme  shabbiness  and  poverty  of  her  dress, 
lifted  a  pleasant,  intelligent  old  face. 

"A  lady  to  see  you,  mother,"  said  the  young  woman, 
hushing  her  fretful  baby  and  looking  curiously  at  the  veiled 
face. 

But  the  lady  made  no  attempt  to  raise  the  envious  screen, 
not  even  when  Mrs.  Martha  Brand  got  up,  dropping  a  re- 
spectful  little  servant's  courtesy  and  placing  a  chair.  It 
was  a  very  thick  veil — an  impenetrable  shield — and  nothing 
could  be  discovered  of  the  face  behind  it  but  that  it  was 
fixedly  pale.  She  sank  into  the  seat,  her  face  turned  to  the 
old  wonun  behind  that  sable  screen. 


SIX  NOEVS  HEItt, 


47 


''  You  are  Mrs.  Brand  ?  " 

The  voice  was  refined  and  patrician.  It  would  have  told 
•he  was  a  lady,  even  if  the  rich  garments  she  wore  did  not. 

"Yes,  ma'am — your  ladyship;  Martha  Brand." 

"  And  you  inserted  that  advertisement  in  the  Times  r&» 
garding  a  child  left  in  your  care  ten  years  ago?  " 

Mother  and  daughter  started,  and  stared  at  the  speaker. 

**  It  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Vyking,  who  left  the  child  in 
your  charge,  by  which  I  infer  you  are  not  aware  that  he  has 
left  England." 

"Left  England,  has  he?"  said  Mrs.  Brand.  "More 
shame  for  him,  then,  never  to  let  me  know  or  leave  a  farth- 
ing to  support  the  boy  I  " 

**  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  was  not  his  fault,"  said  the 
clear,  patrician  voice.  "  He  left  England  suddenly  and 
against  his  will,  and,  I  have  reason  to  think,  will  never  re- 
turn. But  there  are  others  interested — more  interested  than 
he  could  possibly  be — in  the  child,  who  remain,  and  who 
are  willing  to  take  him  off  your  hands.  But  first,  why  is  it 
you  ai'e  so  anxious,  after  keeping  him  all  these  years,  to  get 
rid  of  him?  " 

*'  Well,  you  see,  your  ladyship,"  replied  Martha  Brand, 
"  it  is  not  me,  nor  likewise  Ellen  there,  who  is  my  daugh- 
ter. We  d  keej  the  lad  and  welcome,  and  share  the  last 
crust  we  had  with  him,  as  we  often  have — for  we're  very 
poor  people ;  but,  you  see,  Ellen,  she' s  married  now,  and 
her  husband  never  could  bear  Guy — that's  what  we  call  him, 
your  ladyship — Guy,  which  it  was  Mr.  Vyking's  own  orders, 
Phil  Darking,  her  husband,  never  did  like  him  somehow; 
and  when  he  gets  drunk,  saving  your  ladyship's  presence, 
he  beats  him  most  unmercifully.  And  now  we're  going  to 
America — to  New  York,  where  Phil's  got  a  brother  and 
work  is  better,  and  he  won't  fetch  Guy.  So,  your  lady- 
•hipt  I  thought  I'd  try  once  more  before  we  deserted  him, 


48 


S/H  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


and  put  that  advertisement  in  the  Times,  which  I'm  very 
glad  I  did,  if  it  will  fetch  the  poor  lad  any  friends." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  the  lady  asked, 
thoughtfully :     **  And  when  do  you  leave  for  New  York  ?  " 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  ma'am — and  a  iuug  j^urneji 
it  is  for  a  poor  old  body  like  me." 

**  Did  you  live  here  when  Mr.  Vyking  left  the  child  with 
you — in  this  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  Not  in  this  neighborhood,  nor  in  London  at  all,  yout 
ladyship.  It  was  Lowdean,  in  Berkshire,  and  my  husband 
was  alive  at  the  time.  I  had  just  lost  my  baby,  and  the 
landlady  of  the  hotel  recommended  me.  So  he  brought  it, 
and  paid  me  thirty  sovereigns,  and  promised  me  thirty 
more  every  twelvemonth,  and  told  me  to  call  it  Guy  Vy- 
king— and  that  was  the  last  I  ever  saw  of  him." 

"And  the  infant's  mother?"  said  the  lady,  her  voice 
changing  perceptibly — **  do  you  know  anything  of  her?  " 

"  But  very  little,"  «aid  Martha  Brand,  shaking  her 
head.  *'  I  never  set  eyes  on  her,  although  she  was  sick  at 
the  inn  for  upward  of  three  weeks.  But  Mrs.  Vine,  the 
landlady,  she  saw  her  twice ;  and  she  told  me  what  a  pretty 
young  creeter  she  was — and  a  lady,  if  there  ever  was  a  lady 
yet." 

**  Then  the  child  was  bom  in  Berkshire — how  was  it?" 

*<  Well,  your  ladyship,  it  was  an  accident,  seeing  as  how 
the  carriage  broke  down  with  Mr.  Vyking  and  the  lady,  a 
driving  furious  to  catch  the  last  London  train.  The  lady 
was  so  hurted  that  she  had  to  be  carried  to  the  inn,  and 
went  quite  out  of  her  head,  raving  and  dangerous  like.  Mr. 
Vyking  had  the  landlady  to  wait  upon  her  until  he  could 
telegraph  to  I-ondon  for  a  nurse,  which  one  came  down 
next  day  and  took  charare  of  her.  The  baby  wasn't  two 
days  old  when  he  brought  it  to  me,  and  the  poor  young 
mother  was  dreadfc'  low  and  out  of  her  bead  all  the  tine 

w 


"^^Ulr^BL^ffEIIu 


49 


lib.  Vyking  and  the  nurse  were  all  that  saw  her,  and  the 
doctor,  of  course;  but  she  didn't  die,  as  the  doctor  thought 
she  v;ould,  but  got  well,  and  before  she  came  right  to  her 
senses  Mr.  Vyking  paid  the  doctor  and  told  him  he  needn't 
come  back.  And  then,  a  little  more  than  a  fortnight  aftei^ 
they  took  her  away,  all  sly  and  secret-like,  and  what  they 
told  her  about  her  poor  baby  I  don't  know.  I  always 
thought  there  was  something  dreadful  wrong  about  the  whole 
thing." 

'  **  And  this  Mr.  Vyking — ^was  he  the  child's  father — tne 
woman's  husband  ?  " 

Martha  Brand  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker,  asif  sheaus- 
pected  she  could  answer  that  question  best  herself. 

**  Nobody  knew,  but  everybody  thought  who.  I've  al- 
ways been  of  opinion  myself  that  Guy's  father  and  mother 
■rere  gentlefolks,  and  I  always  shall  be." 

"  Does  the  boy  know  his  own  story  ?  " 

"Yes,  your  ladyship— all  I've  told  you." 

*'  Where  is  he?    I  should  like  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Brand's  daughter,  all  this  time  hushing  her  baby, 
started  up. 

"  I'll  fetch  him.    He's  up-stairs  in  Legard's,  I  know." 

She  left  the  room  and  ran  up-stairs.  The  painter,  Le- 
gard,  still  was  touching  up  Miss  Jenkins,  and  the  bright- 
haired  boy  stood  watching  the  ^  -ogess  of  that  work  of  art. 

*'Guyl  Guy  I "  she  cried  breathlessly,  "comedown- 
stairs  at  once.    You're  wanted." 

"  Who  wants  me,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  A  lady,  dressed  in  the  roost  elegant  and  expensive 
mourning — a  real  lady^  Guy ;  and  she  has  come  about  that 
advertisement,  and  she  wants  to  see  you." 

"  What  is  she  like,  Mrs.  Darking  ? "  inquired  the  painter 
•— "  young  or  old  ?  " 

**  Youngi  I  should  thick;  but  she  hides  her  face  behind 


50 


Sm  NOEL*S  HEIR, 


a  thick  veil,  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  be  known.  CoBU^ 
Guy." 

She  hurried  the  lad  down-stairs  and  into  their  little  room. 
The  veiled  lady  still  sat  talking  to  the  old  woman,  hei  back 
to  the  din!  daylight,  and  that  disguising  veil  still  down. 
She  turned  slightly  at  their  entrance,  and  looked  at  the  boy 
through  it.  Guy  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  his  fear- 
less blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  hidden  face.  Could  he  have  seen 
it  he  might  have  started  at  the  grayish  pallor  which  over- 
spread it  at  sight  of  hivcu 

"  So  like  1  So  like  1 "  the  lady  w  urmuring  between 
her  set  teeth.     *'  It  is  terrible — it  is  lous  \  " 

«*This  is  Guy,  your  ladyship,"  said  Martha  Brand. 
**  I've  done  what  I  could  for  him  for  the  last  ten  years,  and 
I'm  almost  as  sorry  to  part  with  him  as  if  he  were  my  own. 
Is  your  ladyship  going  to  take  him  away  with  you  now?  " 

"  No,"  said  her  ladyship,  sharply  ;  "  I  have  no  such  in- 
tention. Have  you  no  neighbor  or  friend  who  would  be 
willing  to  take  and  bring  him  up,  if  well  paid  for  the 
trouble?    This  time  the  money  shall  be  paid  without  fail." 

**  There's  Legard's,"  cried  the  boy,  eagerly.  "  I'll  go 
to  Legard's,  granny.  I'd  rather  be  with  Joe  than  anywhoe 
else." 

•«  It's  a  neighbor  that  lives  up-stairs,"  murmured  Martha, 
in  explanation.  '*  He  always  took  to  Guy  and  Guy  to  him 
in  a  way  that's  quite  wonderful.  He's  a  very  decent  man, 
your  ladyship — a  painter  for  a  theatre;  and  Guy  takes 
kindly  to  the  business,  and  would  like  to  be  one  himself. 
If  you  don't  want  to  take  away  the  boy,  you  couldn't  leave 
bim  in  better  hands." 

I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     Can  I  see  the  man  ?  " 

<«  I'll  ietch  him  1 "  cried  Guy,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 
Two  minutes  later  came  Mr.  Legard,  paper  cap  and  shirt* 
•leeves,  bowing  very  low  to  the  grand,  black-robed  la4)r« 


Sm  NOEL  *S  HEIR, 


snd  only  too  delighted  to  strike  a  bargain.  The  lady  ol^ 
fered  liberally ;  Mr.  Legard  closed  with  the  offer  at  once. 

"  You  will  clothe  him  belter,  and  you  will  educate  him 
and  give  him  your  name.  I  wish  him  to  drop  that  of 
Vyking.  The  same  amount  I  give  you  now  will  be  sent 
you  this  time  every  year.  If  you  change  your  residence 
in  the  meantime,  or  wish  to  communicate  with  me  on  any 
occurrence  of  consequence,  you  can  address  Madam  Ada, 
post  office,  riymouth." 

She  rose  as  she  s  )ke,  stately  and  tall,  and  motioned  Mr. 
Legard  to  withdraw.  The  painter  gathered  up  the  money 
•he  laid  on  the  table,  and  bowed  himself,  with  a  radiant 
&ce,  out  of  the  room. 

As  for  you,  turning  to  old  Martha,  and  taking  out  of  her 
purse  a  roll  of  crisp.  Bank  of  England  notes,  "  I  think  this 
will  pay  you  for  the  trouble  you  have  had  with  the  boy  dur- 
ing the  last  ten  years.  No  thanks — you  have  earned  tho 
money." 

She  moved  to  the  door,  made  a  slight,  proud  gesture  with 
her  gloved  hand  in  farewell,  took  a  last  look  at  the  golden 
haired,  blue  eyed,  handsome  boy,  and  was  gone.  A  mo- 
ment later  and  her  cab  rattled  out  of  the  murky  street,  and 
the  trio  were  alone  staring  at  one  another,  and  at  the  bulky 
roll  of  notes. 

"I  should  t3-jink  it  was  a  dream  only  for  this,"  murmured 
old  Martha,  looking  at  the  roll  with  glistening  eyes.  "A 
great  lady — a  great  lady,  surely  1  Guy^  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  that  was  your  mother." 


I 


km 


II 


3» 


SIR  NOBL*S  HEHL 


CHAPTER  VDL 


It ' 


if 


i  COLONEL  JOCYLN. 

Five  miles  away  from  Thetford  Towers,  where  the  mul« 
titudinoiis  waves  leaped  and  glistened  all  day  in  the  sun- 
light, as  if  a-glitter  with  diamonds,  stood  Jocyln  Hall.  An 
imposing  structure  of  red  brick,  not  yet  one  hundred  years 
old,  with  sloping  meadows  spreading  away  into  the  blue 
horizon,  and  densely  wooded  pianirtions  gliding  down  to 
the  wide  sea. 

Colonel  Jocyln,  these  lord  of  the  boundless  meadows  and 
miles  of  woodland,  where  the  red  deer  disported  in  the 
green  arcades,  was  absent  in  India,  and  had  been  for  the 
past  nine  years.  They  were  an  old  family,  the  Jocylns,  as 
old  as  any  in  Devon,  and  with  a  pride  that  bore  no  propor- 
tion to  their  purse,  until  the  present  Jocyln,  had,  all  at  once 
become  a  millionaire.  A  penniless  young  lieutenant  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  quartered  somewhere  in  Ireland,  with  a 
handsome  face  and  dashing  manners,  he  had  captivated,  at 
first  sight,  a  wild,  young  Irish  heiress  of  fabulous  wealth 
and  beauty.  It  was  a  love-match  on  her  side — nobody 
knew  exactly  what  it  was  on  his;  but  they  made  a  moonlight 
flitting  of  it,  for  the  lady's  friends  were  grievously  wroth. 
Lieutenant  Jocyln  liked  his  profession  for  its  own  sake,  and 
took  his  Irish  bride  to  India,  and  there  an  heiress  and  only 
child  was  born  tc  him.  The  climate  disagreed  with  the 
young  wife — she  sickened  and  died  ;  but  the  3'oung  officer 
and  his  baby  girl  remamed  in  India.  In  the  fullness  of 
tim.e  he  became  Colonel  Jocyln  ;  and  one  day  electrified 
his  housekeeper  by  a  letter  announcing  his  intention  of 


S/Ji  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


%% 


returning  to  England  with  his  little  daughter  Aileen  for 
good. 

That  same  month  of  December,  which  took  Lady  Thet- 
ford  on  that  u^y'sterious  London  journey,  brought  this  letter 
from  Calcutta.  Five  months  after,  when  the  May  prim- 
rojses  and  hyacinths  were  all  abloom  in  the  green  sea«^ide 
woodlands,  Colonel  Jocyln  and  his  little  daughter  came 
iicme. 

Early  on  the  day  succeeding  his  arrival,  Colonel  Jocyln 
rode  through  the  bright  spring  sunshine,  along  the  pleasant 
high  road  between  Jocyln  Hall  and  Thetford  Towers.  He 
had  met  the  late  Sir  Noel  and  his  bride  once  or  twice  previ- 
ous to  his  departure  for  India  ;  but  there  had  been  no  ac- 
quaintance sufficiently  close  to  warrant  this  speedy  call. 

Lady  Thetfcrd.  sitting  alone  in  her  boudoir,  looked  in 
surprise  at  the  ^ard  the  servant  brought. 

*<  Colonel  Jocyln,'*  she  said,  **  I  did  not  even  know  he 
had  arrived.  And  to  call  so  soon — ah  !  perhaps  he  fetches 
me  letters  from  India  '* 

She  rose  at  the  thought,  her  pale  cheeks  flushing  a  little 
with  expectation.  Mail  after  mail  had  arrived  from  that 
distant  land,  bringing  her  no  letter  from  Captain  Everard. 

Lady  Thetford  descended  at  once.  She  had  few  callers ; 
but  she  was  alway  exquisitely  dressed  and  ready  to  receive 
at  a  moment's  n'-'.ice.  Colonel  Jocyln — tall  and  sallow  and 
Et^ldierly — rose  at  her  entrance. 

"Lady  Thetf^^id?  Ah,  yes  1  Most  happy  to  see  your 
ladyship  once  more.  Permit  me  to  apologize  for  this  very 
early  call — you  will  overlook  my  haste  wiien  you  hear  my 
reason." 

Lady  Thetford  held  out  her  white  hand. 

**  Allow  me  to  welcome  you  back  to  England,  Colonel 
Jocyln.  You  have  come  for  good  this  time,  I  hope.  And 
little  Aileen  is  well,  I  trust? " 


■jr.  I 


54 


SIX  NVEL  'S  HEIR. 


\\\ 


?[ 


**  Very  well,  and  very  glad  to  be  released  from  ship- 
board. I  need  not  ask  for  young  Sir  Rupert — I  saw  him 
with  his  nurse  in  the  park  as  1  rode  up.  A  fine  boy,  and 
like  you,  ray  lady." 

*«  Yes,  Rupert  is  like  me.  And  now — ^how  are  our  mu- 
tual friends  in  India?" 

The  momentous  question  she  had  been  longing  to  ask 
from  the  first ;  but  her  well-trained  voice  spoke  it  as  stead- 
ily as  though  it  had  been  a  question  of  the  weather. 

Colonel  Jocyln's  face  clouded,  darkened. 

**  I  bring  bad  news  from  India,  my  lady.  Captain  Ever- 
ard  was  a  friend  of  yours? " 

*'  Yes  J  he  left  his  little  daughter  in  my  charge." 

"  I  know.     You  have  not  heard  from  him  lately  ?  " 

*'  No,  and  I  have  been  rather  anxious.  Nothing  h«s  be- 
fallen the  captain,  I  hope  ?  " 

The  well-trained  voice  shook  a  little  despite  its  admirable 
training,  and  the  slender  fingers  looped  and  unlooped  nerv- 
ously her  watch-chain. 

«*  Yes,  i^acly  Thetford;  the  very  worst  that  could  befall 
him.     George  Everard  is  dead." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  Colonel  Jocyln  looked  grave 
and  downcast  and  sad. 

*<  He  was  my  friend,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  my  in- 
timate friend  for  many  years — a  fine  fellow  and  brave  as  a 
lion.  Many,  many  nights  we  have  lain  with  the  stars  of 
India  shining  on  our  bivouac  whilst  he  talked  to  me  of  you, 
of  England,  of  his  daughter." 

Lady  Thetford  never  spoke,  never  stirred.  She  was  sit- 
ting gazing  steadfastly  out  of  the  window  at  the  sparkling 
sunshine,  and  Colonel  Jocyln  could  not  see  her  face. 

**  He  was  as  glorious  a  soldier  as  ever  I  knew,"  the  colo- 
nel went  on ;  <*  and  he  died  a  soldier's  deatb^-4Jiot  througli 


,*' 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


5S 


the  heart.  They  buried  him  out  there  with  miHtary  hon- 
ors, and  some  of  his  men  cried  on  his  grave  lilce  children." 

There  was  another  blank  pause.  Still  Lady  Thetford  sat 
with  that  fixed  gaze  on  the  brilliant  May  sunshine,  move' 
less  as  stone. 

**  It  is  a  sad  thing  for  his  poor  little  girl,"  the  Indian 
officer  said  j  **  she  is  fortunate  in  having  such  a  guardian 
as  you,  Lady  Thetford."  ' 

Lady  Thetford  awoke  from  her  trance.  She  had  been  in 
a  trance,  and  the  years  had  slipped  backward,  and  she  had 
been  in  her  far-off  girlhood's  home,  with  George  Everard, 
her  handsome,  impetuous  lover,  by  her  side.  She  had 
loved  him  then,,  even  when  she  said  no  and  married  an- 
other ;  she  loved  him  still,  and  now  he  was  dead — dead  1 
But  she  turned  to  her  visitor  with  a  face  that  told  nothing. 

"I  am  so  sorry — so  very,  very  sorry.  My  poor  little 
May!  Did  C  lin  Everard  speak  of  her,  of  me,  before 
he  died?" 

"  He  died  instantaneously,  my  lady.  There  was  no 
time." 

"Ah,  no!  poor  fellow  I  It  is  the  fortune  of  war— but 
it  is  very  sad." 

That  was  all ;  we  may  feel  inexpressibly,  !•  it  we  can  only 
otter  commonplaces.  Lady  Thetf  •  i  was  very,  very  pale, 
but  her  pallor  told  nothing  of  the  dreary  pain  at  her  heart. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  little  May?  I  will  send  fo/ 
her." 

Little  May  was  sent  for  and  came.  .  brilliant  little  fairy 
as  ever,  brightly  dressed,  with  shimmering  golden  curls  and 


scarry  eyes. 
6kd  baronet, 
and  looking 

By  her  side  stood  Sir  Rupert — the  nine-year- 
growing  tall  very  fast,  pale  and  slender  still, 
at  the  colonel  with  bis  mother's  dark,  deep 

^yes. 

• 

M'-                                       .      ,       . 

«                                                                                       1 

i 

56 


SIR  NOEL*S  HETR, 


in 

III- 1 


m 


i! 


Colonel  Jocyin  held  out  his  hand  to  the  flaxen>haired 

fairy. 

"  Come  here,  little  May,  and  kiss  papa's  friend.  Yoa 
remember  papa,  don't  you?  " 

**  Yes,"  said  May,  sitting  on  hisknee  contentedly.  *'  Oh, 
yes  I  When  is  papa  coming  home  ?  He  said  in  mamma '» 
letter  he  would  fetch  me  lots  and  lots  of  dolls  and  picture^ 
books.     Is  he  coming  home  ?  " 

**  Not  very  soon,"  the  colonel  said,  inexpressibly 
touched  ;  "  but  little  May  will  go  to  papa  some  day.  Yoq 
and  mamma,  I  suppose?"  smiling  at  Lady  Thetford. 

"Yes,"  nodded  May,  "that's  mamma,  and  Rupert'i 
mamma.  Oh  !  I  am  so  sorry  papa  isn't  coming  home  soon  I 
Do  you  know  " — looking  up  in  his  face  with  big,  shining, 
solemn  eyes — "  I've  got  a  pony,  and  I  can  ride  lovely ;  and 
his  name  is  Snowdrop,  because  it's  all  white  ;  and  Rupert's 
is  black,  and  his  name  is  Sultan  ?  And  I've  got  a  watch  j 
mamma  gave  it  to  me  last  Christmas ;  and  my  doll's  name 
—the  big  one,  you  know,  that  opens  its  eyes  and  says 
« mamma '  and  '  papa ' — is  Sonora.  Have  you  got  any  li^ 
tie  girls  at  home?" 

"  One,  Miss  Chatterbox." 

"Wiiat's  her  name!" 

"Aileen — Aileen  Jocyin." 

** Is  she  nice?" 
,     •*  Very  nice,  I  think." 
'     *»  Will  she  come  to  see  mo?  " 
^    **  If  you  wish  it  and  mamma  wishes  it." 

'Oh,  yes!  you  do,  don't  you,  mammn?    How  big  if 
jrour  little  girl — as  big  as  »^e  ?" 

*•  Bigger,  I  fane, .     Sh-^  is  nine  years  crtd." 

"Then  she's  s  big  «s  Rupert — he's  nine  years  oMi 
May  she  fetch  her  doll  *o  see  Sonora? *' 

*'  Certainly-  a  r«4|iment  of  dolls,  if  shelwishcj," 


SIR  NOEL  *S  HEIR. 


sr 


"Can't  she  come  to-morrow?"  asked  Rupert.  "  To- 
morrow's May's  birthday;  May's  seven  years  old  to-mor 
row.     Mayn't  she  come  1  " 

*'  That  must  be  as  mamma  says." 

*'  Ch,  fetch  her  !  "  cried  Lady  Thetford,  "  it  will  be  so 
nice  for  May  and  Rupert.  Only  I  hope  little  May  won't 
quarrel  with  her ;  she  does  quarrel  with  her  playmates  a 
good  deal,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

**I  won't  if  she's  nice,"  said  May;  "it's  all  their  fault 
Oh,  Rupert  I  there's  Mrs.  Weymore  on  the  lawn,  and  I 
want  her  to  come  and  see  the  rabbits.  There's  five  little 
rabbits  this  morning,  mamma — mayn't  I  go  and  show  them 
to  Mrs.  Weymore  ?  " 

I^dy  Thetford  nodded  smiling  acquiescence ;  and  away 
ran  little  May  and  Rupert  to  show  the  rabbits  to  the  gov- 
erness. 

Col.  Jocyln  lingered  for  half  an  hour  or  upward,  con- 
versing with  his  hostess,  and  rose  to  take  his  leave  at  last, 
with  the  promise  of  returning  on  the  morrow  with  his  lit- 
tle daugiiter,  and  dining  at  the  house.  As  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  homeward,  "a  haunting  shape,  an  image 
gay,"  followed  him  through  the  genial  May  sunshine- 
Lady  Ada  Thetford,  fair,  and  stately  and  graceful. 

'•Nine  years  a  widow,"  he  mused.  "They  say  she 
took  her  husband's  death  very  hard — and  no  wonder,  con- 
sidering how  he  died  j  but  nine  years  is  a  tolerable  time  in 
which  to  forget.  She  took  the  news  of  Everard's  death 
very  quietly.  I  don't  suppose  there  was  ever  anything 
really  in  that  old  story.  How  handsome  she  is,  and  how 
graceful ! " 

He  broke  off  in  his  musing  fit  to  light  a  cigar,  and  see 
through  the  curling  smoke  dark-eyed  Ada,  mamma  to  little 
iVileen  as  well  as  the  other  two.    He  had  never  thought  of 


ill 


m 


t^^ 


5« 


Sm  NOELS  ilEtX. 


I 

It 


wanting  a  wife  before,  in  all  these  years  of  his  widowhood; 
but  the  want  struck  him  forcibly  now. 

"  And  Aileen  wants  a  mother,  and  the  little  baronet  ft 
father,"  he  thought,  coniplacently }  "my  lady  can't  do 
better." 

So  next  day  at  the  earliest  possible  hour,  came  back  the 
gallant  colonel,  and  with  him  a  brown-haired,  brown-eyed, 
quiet-looking  little  girl,  as  tall,  every  inch,  as  Sir  Rupert 
A  little  embryo  patrician,  with  pride  in  her  infantile  linea- 
ments already,  an  uplifted  poise  of  the  graceful  head,  a 
light,  elastic  step,  and  a  softly-modulated  voice.  A  little 
lady  from  top  to  toe,  who  opened  her  little  brown  eyes  in 
wide  wonder  at  the  antics,  and  gambols,  and  obstreperous- 
ness,  generally,  of  little  May. 

There  were  two  or  three  children  from  the  rectory,  and 
half  a  dozen  from  other  families  in  the  neighborhood — and 
the  little  birthday  feast  was  under  the  charge  of  Mrs.  Wey« 
more,  the  governess,  pale  and  pretty,  and  subdued  as  of  old. 
They  raced  through  the  leafy  arcades  of  the  park,  and  gam- 
boled  in  the  garden,  and  had  tea  in  a  fairy  summer  house, 
to  the  music  of  plashing  fountains — and  little  May  was 
captain  of  the  band.  Even  shy,  still  Aileen  Joclyn  forgot 
her  youthful  dignity,  and  raced  and  laughed  with  the  best. 

**  It  was  so  nice,  papa  !  "  she  cried  rapturously,  riding 
home  in  the  misty  moonlight.  "I  never  enjoyed  myself  so 
well.  I  like  Rupert  so  much — better  than  May,  you  know; 
May's  so  rude  and  laughs  so  loud.  I've  asked  tliem  to  come 
and  see  me,  papa;  and  May  said  she  would  make  her 
mamma  let  them  come  next  week.  And  then  I'm  going 
back — I  shall  always  like  to  go  there." 

Col.  Jocyln  smiled  as  he  listened  to  his  little  daughter's 
prattle.  Perhaps  he  agreed  with  her;  perhaps  he,  too, 
liked  to  go  there.  The  dinner-party,  at  which  he  and  the 
lector  of  St.  Gosport^  and  the  rector's  wife  were  the  only 


SIX  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


59 


^ests,  had  been  quite  as  pleasant  as  the  birthcfay  fete. 
Very  graceful,  very  fair  and  stately,  had  looked  the  lady  of 
the  manor,  presiding  at  her  own  dinner-table.  How  well 
she  would  look  at  the  head  of  his. 

The  Indian  officer,  after  that,  became  a  very  frequent 
guest  at  Thetford  Towers — the  children  were  such  a  good 
excuse.  Aileen  was  lonely  at  home,  and  Rupert  and  May 
were  always  glad  to  have  her.  So  papa  drove  her  over 
nearly  every  day,  or  else  came  to  fetch  the  other  two  to 
Jocyln  Hall.  Lady  Thetford  was  ever  most  gracious,  and 
the  colonel's  hopes  ran  high. 

Summer  waned.  It  was  October,  and  Lady  Thetford 
began  talking  of  leaving  St.  Gosport  for  a  season;  hei 
health  was  not  good,  and  change  of  air  was  recommended. 

**  I  can  leave  my  children  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Weymore," 
dhe  said.  **  I  have  every  confidence  in  her;  and  she  has 
been  with  me  so  long.  I  think  I  shall  depart  next  week ; 
Dr.  Gale  says  I  have  delayed  too  long." 

Col.  Jocyln  looked  up  uneasily.  They  were  sitting  alone 
together,  looking  at  the  red  October  sunset  blazing  itself 
out  behind  the  Devon  hills. 

*<  We  shall  miss  you  very  much,"  he  said,  softly.  *«  \ 
shall  miss  you." 

Something  in  his  tone  struck  Lady  Thetford.  Sh'f 
turned  her  dark  eyes  upon  him  in  surprise  and  sudden 
alarm.  The  look  had  to  be  answered ;  rather  embarrassed, 
and  not  at  all  so  confident  as  he  thought  he  would  havf 
been,  Col.  Jocyln  asked  Lady  Thetford  to  be  his  wife. 

There  was  a  blank  pause.     Then, 

"  I  am  very  sorry.  Col.  Jocyln,  I  never  thought  of  this.* 

He  looked  at  her,  pale — alarmed. 

"  Does  that  mean  no.  Lady  Thetford  ?  " 

It  means  no,  Col.  Jocyln.  I  have  never  thought  of  ycy> 
Wiwft  as  a  friend;  as  a  friend  I  still  wish  to  retain  you.    S 


i 


Co 


S/H  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


will  never  marry.  What  I  am  to-day  I  will  go  to  my  gravfc 
My  boy  has  my  whole  heart — there  is  no  room  in  it  for 
anyone  else.  Let  us  be  friends,  Coi.  Jocyln,"  holding  out 
her  white  jeweled  hand,  "  more,  no  mortal  man  can  evei 
be  to  me." 


;  CHAPTER  VUL 

LADY  THETFORD's   BALL. 

Years  came  and  years  went,  and  thirteen  passed  away. 
In  all  these  years  with  their  countless  changes,  Thetford 
Towers  had  been  a  deserted  house.  Comparatively  speak- 
ing, of  course ;  Mrs.  Weymore,  the  governess,  Mrs.  Hil- 
liard,  the  housekeeper,  Mr,  Jarvis,  the  butler,  and  their 
minor  satellites,  served  there  still,  but  its  mistress  and  her 
youthful  son  had  been  absent.  Only  little  May  had  re- 
mained under  Mrs.  Weymore's  charge  until  within  the  last 
two  years,  and  then  she,  too,  had  gone  to  Paris  to  a  finish- 
ing schooL 

Lady  Thetford  came  herself  to  the  Towers  to  fetch  her 
— the  only  time  in  these  thirteen  years.  She  had  spent 
them  pleasantly  enough,  rr.mblin'^r  .ibout  the  Continent,  and 
in  her  villa  on  the  Arno,  for  her  health  was  frail,  and  grow- 
ing daily  frailer,  ana  demanded  a  sunny  Soutliern  clime. 
The  little  baronet  had  gone  to  Eton,  thence  to  Oxford, 
passing  his  vacation  abroad  with  his  mamma — and  St.  Gos- 
port  had  seen  nothing  of  them.  Lady  Thetford  had 
thought  it  best,  for  many  reasons,  to  leave  little  May 
quietly  in  England  during  her  wanderings.  She  missed  the 
child,  but  she  had  every  confidence  in  Mrs.  Weymore. 
The  old  aversion  had  entirely  worn  away,  but  time  had 
taught  her  she  could  truat  her  implicitly ;   and  though  Ma|r 


u  I 


in 


^' 


jn 


''T 


6i 


night  miss  ^'mumma"  aiid  Rupert,  it  %;^ss  r.ot  in  that 
flighty  fairy's  nature  to  talj3  their  absence  very  deeply  to 
heart. 

Jocyln  Hall  was  vacated,  too.     After  that  refusal  of  Lady 
Thetford,  Col.  Jocyin  had  left:  England,  placed  his  daugh 
ter  in  a  school  abroad,  and  made  a  tour  of  the  East. 

Lady  Thetford  he  had  not  met  until  within  the  last  year, 
then  Lady  Thetford  and  her  son,  spending  the  winter  ia 
Rome,  had  eucointeied  Col.  and  MioS  Jocyin,  and  they 
had  scarcely  parted  company  since.  The  Thetfords  were 
to  return  early  in  the  spring  to  take  up  their  abode  once 
more  in  the  old  home,  and  Col.  Jocyin  announced  his  in« 
tention  of  follov«ring  their  example. 

Lady  Thetford  wrote  to  Mrs.  Weymore,  her  viceroy, 
and  to  her  steward,  issuing  her  orders  for  the  expected  re- 
turn. Thetiord  Towers  v/as  to  be  completely  rejuvenated — 
new  furnished,  painted  and  decorated.  Landscape  garden- 
ers were  set  at  work  in  the  grounds;  all  things  were  to  be 
ready  the  following  June. 

Simmer  came  and  brought  the  absentees — Lady  Thetford 
And  her  son,  Col.  Jocyin  and  his  daughter;  and  there  were 
bonfires  and  illuminations,  and  feasting  of  tenantry,  and 
ringing  of  bells,  and  general  jubilation,  tnat  the  heir  of 
Thetford  Towers  had  come  to  reign  at  last. 

The  week  following  the  arrival,  Lady  Thetford  issued  in- 
vitations over  half  the  country  for  a  giand  l)all.  Thetford 
Towers,  after  over  twenty  year^  of  gloom  and  solitdde,  wim 
coming  out  again  in  the  old  gayety  and  brilliance  that  haa 
been  its  normal  state  before  the  pre;-enr  heir  was  bvirn. 

The  niglit  of  the  ball  came,  and  v/ith  nearly  every  one 
who  had  been  honoret^  with  an  invitation,  all  ciuious  to 
see  the  future  lord  of  one  of  the  noblest  domains  in  broad 
Devonsliire. 

Sir  Rupert  Thetford  stood  by  his  cotltei's  side,  and  met 


63 


S/X  NOEL 'S  ffETR, 


her  old  friends  for  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood— « 
slender  young  man,  pale  and  dark,  and  handsome  of  face 
with  dreamy  slumbrous  eyes  of  darkness,  and  quiet  man- 
ners, not  at  all  like  his  father's  fair-haired,  bright-eyed, 
stalwart  Saxon  race ;  the  Thetford  blood  had  run  out,  he 
was  his  own  mother's  son. 

Lad>  Thetford  grown  pallid  and  wan,  and  wasted  in  all 
these  years,  and  bearing  v/ithin  the  seeds  of  an  incurable 
disease,  looked  yet  fair  and  gracious,  and  stately  in  her 
trailing  robes  and  jewels,  to-night,  receiving  her  guests  like 
a  queen.  It  was  the  triumph  of  her  life,  the  desire  of  her 
heart,  this  seeing  her  son,  her  idol,  reigning  in  the  home 
of  his  fathers,  ruler  of  the  broad  domain  that  had  owned 
the  Thetfords  lord  for  more  years  back  than  she  could 
count. 

"If  I  could  but  see  her  his  wife,"  Lady  Thetford 
thought,  "  I  think  I  should  have  nothing  left  on  oirth  to 
desire. 

She  glanced  across  the  wide  room,  along  a  vista  of  lights, 
and  flitting  forms,  and  rich  dresses,  and  sparkling  jev/els, 
to  where  a  young  lady  stood,  the  center  of  an  animated 
group — a  tall  and  eminently  handsome  girl,  with  a  proud 
patrician  face,  and  the  courtly  grace  of  a  young  empress— 
Aileen  Jocyln,  heiress  of  fabulous  wealth,  possessor  of  fab- 
ulous beauty,  and  descendant  of  a  race  as  noble  and  as  an* 
cient  as  his  own. 

'*  With  her  for  his  wife,  come  what  might  in  the  future, 
tny  Rupert  would  be  safe,"  the  mother  thought ;  "and  who 
knows  what  a  day  may  bring  forth?  Ah  !  if  I  dared  onlf* 
speak,  but  I  dare  not ;  it  would  ruin  all.    I  know  my  son.*^ 

Yes,  Lady  Thetford  knew  her  son,  understood  his  char 
acter  thoroughly,  and  was  a  great  deal  too  wary  a  conspira- 
tor to  let  him  see  her  cards.  Fate,  not  she,  had  thrown 
the  heiress  and  the  basnet  constantly  together  of  late,  and 


SrX  KOEL  'S  HEIR. 


03 


AOeen's  own  beauty  and  grace  was  surely  suflScienl  for  the 
rest.  It  was  the  one  desire  of  Lady  Thetford's  heart ;  but 
she  never  said  to  her  son,  who  loved  her  dearly,  and  would 
have  done  a  great  deal  to  add  to  her  happiness.  She  left 
it  to  fate,  and  leaving  it,  was  doing  the  wisest  thing  she 
could  possibly  do. 

It  seemed  as  if  her  hopes  were  likely  to  be  realized.    Sir 
Rupert  h"id  an  artist's  and  a  Sybarite's  love  for  all  things 
beautiful  and  could  appreciate  the  grand  statuesque  style 
of  Miss  Jocyln's  beauty,  even  as  his  mother  could  not  ap- 
preciate ;t.     She  was  like   the  Pallas  Athine,  she  was  his 
ideal  woman,  fair  and  proud,  uplifted  and  serene,  smiling 
on  all,  from  the  heights  of  high-and-mightydora,  but  shin- 
ing jpon  them,  a  brilliant  far-off  star,  keeping  her  warmth 
and  aweetness  all  for  him.     He  was  an  indolent,  dreamy 
Sybarite,  this  pale  young  baronet,  who  liked  his  rose-leaves 
unruffled  under  him,  full  of  artistic  tastes  and  inspirations, 
and  a  great  deal  too  lazy  ever  to  carry  them  into  efiec:    He 
was  an  artist,  and  he  had  a  studio  where  he  began  fifty  gi- 
gantic deeds  at  once  in  the  way  of  pictures,  and  seldom 
finished  one.    Nature  had  intended  him  tor  an  artist,  not 
country  squire;  he  cared  little  for  riding,  or  hunting,  or 
fishinjj,  or  farming,  or  any  of  the  things  wherein  country 
squires  delight ;   he  liked  better  to  lie  on  the  warm  grass, 
with  the  summer  wind  stirring  in  the  trees  over  his  head, 
ind  smoke  his  Turkish  pipe,  and  dream  the  lazy  hours 
away.     If  he  had  been  born  a  poor  man  he  might  have 
been  a  great  painter ;  as  it  was,  he  was  only  an  idle,  list- 
less, elegant,  languid  dreamer,  and  so  likely  to  remain  until 
the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Lady  Thetford's  ball  was  a  very  brilliant  affair,  and  a  fa- 
mous success.  Until  far  into  the  gray  and  dismal  dawn, 
••flute,  violin,  bassoon,"  woke  sweet  echoes  in  the  once 
IJbastly  rooms,  so  long  where  silence  had  reigned.    Half  the 


i 

I- 


!i 


64 


S//f  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


county  had  been  invited,  and  half  the  county  were  there; 
and  hosts  of  pretty,  rosy  girls,  in  arcophane  and  roses,  and 
sparkling  jewelry,  baited  their  dainty  traps,  and '*  wove 
becks  and  nods,  and  wreathed  smiles,"  for  the  spe.  i  il  delec» 
tation  of  the  handsome  cou»"tly  heir  of  Thetford  Towers. 

But  the  heir  of  Thetford  Towers,  with  gracious  greetings 
for  all,  yet  walked  through  the  rose  strewn  pitfalls  all  se- 
cure, v/hilst  the  starry  face  of  Aileen  Jocyln  shone  on  him 
in  its  pale,  high-bred  beauty.  He  had  not  danced  much ; 
he  had  an  antipathy  to  dancing  as  he  had  to  exertion  of  any 
kind,  and  presently  he  stood  leaning  against  r.  slender 
white  column,  watching  her  in  a  state  of  lazy  '^''^'  '-ation. 
He  could  see  quite  as  clearly  as  his  mother  how  eminently 
proper  a  marriage  with  the  heiress  of  Col.  Jocyln  would 
be;  he  knew  by  instinct,  too,  how  much  she  desired  it; 
and  it  was  easy  enough,  looking  at  her  in  her  girlish  pride 
and  beauty,  to  fancy  himself  very  much  in  love,  and  though 
anything  but  a  coxcomb,  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  was  perfectly 
aware  of  his  own  handsome  face  and  dreamy  artist's  eyes, 
and  his  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  lengthy  pedigree,  and 
had  a  hazy  idea  that  the  handsome  Aileen  would  not  say 
no  when  he  spoke. 

**  And  I'll  speak  to-night,  by  Jove  I  "  thought  the  young 
baronet,  as  near  being  enthusiastic  as  was  his  nature,  as  he 
watched  her,  the  brilliant  center  of  a  brilliant  group. 
How  exquisite  she  is  in  her  statuesque  grace,  my  peer- 
less Aileen,  the  ideal  of  my  dreams.  I'll  ask  her  to  be 
my  wife  to-night,  or  that  inconceivable  idiot.  Lord  Gilbert 
Penryhn,  will  do  it  to-morrow." 

He  sauntered  over  to  the  group,  not  at  all  insensible  to 
the  quick,  bright  smile  and  flitting  flush  with  which  Miss 
Jocyln  welcomed  him. 

"I  believe  this  waltz  is  mine,  Miss  Jocyln.    Very  sorry 


'"^ 


S/H  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


65 


to  break  upon  your  tete-a-teUt  Penryhn,  but  necessity  knowf 
no  law." 

A  moment  and  they  were  floating  down  the  whirling  tide 
of  the  dance,  with  the  wild,  melancholy  waltz  music  swell- 
ing and  sounding,  and  Miss  Jocyln's  perfumed  hair  breath- 
ing fragrance  around  him,  and  the  starry  face  and  dark, 
dewy  eyes  downcast  a  little,  in  a  happy  tremor.  The  cold, 
■till  look  of  fixed  pride  seemed  to  melt  out  of  her  face,  and 
an  exquisite  rosy  light  came  and  went  in  its  place,  and 
made  her  too  lovely  to  tell ;  and  Sir  Rupert  saw  and  un" 
derstood  it  all,  with  a  little  complacent  thrill  of  satisfac 
tion. 

They  floated  out  of  the  ball-room  into  a  conservatory  oi 
exquisite  blossom,  where  tropic  plants  of  gorgeous  hues, 
and  plashing  fountains,  under  the  white  light  of  alabaster 
lamps,  made  a  sort  of  garden  of  Eden.  There  were  orange 
and  myrtle  trees  oppressing  the  warm  air  with  their  sweet- 
ness, and  through  the  open  French  windows  came  the  soft, 
misty  moonlight  and  the  saline  wind.  There  they  stopped, 
looking  out  of  the  pale  glory  of  the  night,  and  there  Sir 
Rupert,  about  to  ask  the  supreme  question  of  his  life,  and 
with  his  heart  beginning  to  plunge  against  his  side,  opened 
conversation  with  the  usual  brilliancy  in  such  cases. 

*<  You  look  fatigued,  Miss  Joey  In.  These  grand  balls  are 
great  bores,  after  all." 

Miss  Jocyln  laughed  frankly.  She  was  of  a  nature  faf 
more  impassioned  than  his,  and  she  ^  )ved  him ;  and  she  felt 
thrilling  through  every  nerve  in  her  body  the  prescience  of 
what  he  was  going  t()  say ;  for  all  that,  being  a  woman,  shtf 
!had  the  best  of  it  now. 

*•  I  am  not  at  all  fatigued,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  like  it  i. 
don't  think  balls  are  bores— like  this,  I  mean ;  but  then,  to 
be  Sure,  my  experience  is  very  limited.  How  lovely  ti:«) 
Bight  is !    Look  at  the  moonlight,  yonder,  on  the 


f 


•V 


66 


STR  NOEL  'S  heir: 


sheet  of  silvery  glory.  Does  it  not  recall  Sorrento  and  the 
exquisite  Sorrentine  landscape — that  moonlight  on  the  sea? 
Are  you  not  inspired,  sir  artist?  " 

She  lifted  a  flitting,  radiant  glance,  a  luminous  smile, 
and  the  star-like  face,  drooped  again — and  the  white  hands 
took  to  reckless  breaking  off  sweet  spra}s  of  myrtle. 

"  My  inspiration  is  nearer,"  looking  down  at  tlie  droop- 
ing face.     ''Aileen "and  there  he  stopped,  and  the 

sentence  was  never  destined  to  be  finished,  for  a  shadow 
darkened  the  moonlight,  and  a  figure  flitted  in  like  a  spirit 
and  [stood  before  them — a  '':y  figure,  in  a  cloud  of  rosy 
drapery,  with  shimmering  go.  .  ju  curls  and  dancing  eyes  of 
turquoise  blue. 

Aileen,  Jocyln  started  back  and  away  from  her  compan- 
ion, with  a  faint,  thrilling  cry.  Sir  Rupert,  wondering  and 
annoyed,  stood  staring ;  and  still  the  fairy  figure  in  the 
rosy  gauze  stool,  like  a  nymph  in  a  stage  tableau,  smiling 
up  in  their  faces  and  never  speaking.  There  was  a  blank 
pause,  a  moment's;  then  Miss  Jocyln  made  one  step  for- 
ward, doubt,  recognition,  delight,  all  in  hor  face  at  once. 

•*  It  is— it  is  !  "  she  cried,  "  May  Everard  !  " 

"  May  Everard !"  Sir  Rupert  echoed—"  litde  May  !  " 

**  At  your  service,  monsieu:  f  To  think  you  should  hav* 
forgotten  me  so  completely  in  a  decade  of  years.  For 
shame,  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  !  " 

And  then  she  A\as  in  Aileen  Jocyln's  arms,  and  there  was 
an  hiatus  filled  up  with  kisses. 

**Ohl  what  a  surprise!"  Miss  Jocyln  cried  breath- 
lessly.  "Have  you  dropped  from  the  skies?  I  thought 
you  were  in  France." 

May  Everard  laughed,  the  calm,  bright  laugh  of  thirteen 
years  ago,  as  she  held  up  her  dimpled  cheeks,  first  one  and 
Uien  the  other,  to  Sir  Rupert. 

M  pm  ygu  ?    So  I  was,  but  I  raii  away." 


STR  NOEL'S  HETS. 


«t 


**Ran  away  !     From  school  ?  " 

*'  Something  very  like  it.  Oh  !  how  stupid  it  was,  and 
£  'couldn't  endure  it  any  longer ;  and  I  am  so  crammed 
with  knowledge  now  that  if  I  held  any  more  I  should 
burst ;  and  so  I  told  them  I  had  to  como;  home ;  but  I  was 
sent  for,  which  was  true,  you  knov^  for  I  felt  an  inward 
call ;  and  as  they  were  glad  to  be  rici  of  me,  they  didn't 
make  much  opposition  or  nsk  unnecessary  questions.  And 
so,"  folding  the  fairy  hands  and  nodding  her  little  ringleted 
head,  "  here  I  am." 

"But,  good  heavens  !  "  cried  Sir  Rupert,  aghast,  **  you 
never  mean  to  say.  May,  you  have  come  alone  ?  " 

"  All  alone,"  said  May,  with  another  nod.  "  I'm  used 
to  it,  you  know;  did  it  last  vacation.  Came  across  and 
spent  it  with  Mrs.  We}  more.  I  don't  mind  it  the  least ; 
don't  know  what  sea-sickness  is  ;  and  oh  !  didn't  some  of 
the  poor  wretches  suffer  this  time  !  Isn't  it  fortunate  I'm 
here  for  the  ball?  And,  Rupert,  good  gracious  1  how 
you've  grown  !  " 

**  Thanks.  I  can't  see  that  you  have  changed  much. 
Miss  Everard.  You  are  the  same  curly -headed,  saucy  fairy 
I  knew  thirteen  years  ago.  What  does  my  lady  say  to  this 
escapade?  " 

"  Nothing,  Eloquent  silence  best  expresses  her  feelings ; 
and  then  she  hadn't  time  to  make  a  scene.  Are  you  going 
to  asr  me  to  dance,  Rupert?  be'^ause  if  you  are,"  said  Miss 
Everan'.  adjusting  her  bracelet,  "  you  had  better  do  it  at 
once,  a'  I  am  going  back  to  the  ball- room,  and  after  I  once 
appear  there  you  will  stand  no  chance  amongst  the  crowd  of 
competitors.  But  then,  perhaps  you  belong  to  Miss 
Jocyln  ? " 

'*  Not  at  aH,'*  Mis?  Jocyln  interposed,  hastily,  and  red- 
dening a  little  :  "I  am  engaged,  and  it  is  time  I  was  back, 
or  my  unlucky  cavalier  wiil  be  at  his  wii's  end  to  find  me," 


«8 


Sm  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


i 


She  swept  away  with  a  quicker  movement  than  her  wont, 
and  Sir  Riiper!;  laughingly  gave  his  piquant  little  partner  his 
arm.  His  notions  of  propriety  were  a  good  deal  shocked  ; 
but  then  it  was  only  May  Everard,  and  May  Everard  was 
one  of  those  e:xeptionable  people  who  can  do  pretty  much 
as  they  please,  and  not  surprise  any  one.  They  went  back 
to  the  ball-room,  the  fairy  in  pink  on  the  arm  of  the  young 
baronet,  chattering  like  a  magpie.  Miss  Jocyln's  partner 
found  her  and  led  htr  off;  but  Miss  Jocyln  was  very  silent 
and  distrait  all  the  resi  of  the  night,  and  watched  furtively, 
but  incessantly,  the  fluttering  pink  fairy,  bhe  had  reigned 
belle  hitherto,  but  sparkling  little  May,  like  an  embodied 
sunbeam,  electrified  the  rooms,  and  took  the  crown  and  the 
sceptre  by  royal  right.  Sir  Rupert  had  that  one  dance, 
and  no  more — Miss  Everard's  own  prophecy  was  true — the 
demand  for  her  was  such  tlat  even  the  son  of  the  house 
stood  not  the  shadow  of  a  chan»',e. 

Miss  Jocyln  held  herself  aloof  from  the  young  baronet 
for  the  remaining  hours  of  the  ball.  She  had  known  as 
well  as  he  the  words  that  were  on  his  lips  when  May  Everard 
interposed,  and  her  eyes  flashed  i.jid  her  dark  cheek  flushed 
dusky  red  to  see  how  easily  he  hud  been  deterred  from  his 
purpose.  For  him,  he  sought  her  once  or  twice  in  a  desul- 
tory sort  of  way,  never  noticing  that  he  was  purposely 
avoided,  wandering  contentedly  back  to  devote  himself  to 
some  one  else,  and  in  the  pause;  to  watch  May  Everard 
floating — a  sunbeam  in  a  rosy  clcud — here  and  there  and 
every  wh'^re. 


S/H  NOEL'S  HEUL 


CHAPTER  IX. 


GUY  LEGARD. 


He  meant  to  have  spoken  that  night ;  he  would  have 
spoken  but  for  May  Everard.  And  yet  that  is  two  weeks 
ago,  and  we  have  been  together  since,  and " 

Aileen  Jocyhi  broke  off  abruptly,  and  looked  out  over 
the  far-spreading,  gray  sea. 

The  morning  was  dull,  the  leaden  sky  threatening  rain, 
the  wind  sighing  fitfully,  and  the  slow,  gray  sea  creep- 
ing up  the  gray  sands.  Aileen  Jocyln  sat  as  she  had  sat 
since  breakfast,  aimless  and  dreary,  by  her  dressing-room 
window,  gazing  blankly  over  the  pale  landscape,  her  hair 
falling  loose  and  damp  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  novel 
lying  listlessly  in  her  lap.  The  book  had  no  interest ;  her 
thoughts  would  stray,  in  spite  of  her,  to  Thetford  Towers. 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  Miss  Jocyln  thought,  "  with  that 
pink  and  white  wax-doll  sort  of  prettiness  some  people 
admire.  1  never  thought  he  could,  with  his  artistic  nature; 
but  I  suppose  I  was  mistaken.  They  call  her  fascinating; 
I  believe  that  rather  hoidenish  manner  of  hers,  and  all 
those  dashing  airs,  and  that  *  loud  '  style  of  dress  and  do- 
ings, take  some  men  by  storm.  I  presume  I  was  mistaken 
in  Sir  Rupert ,  I  dare  say  pretty,  penniless  May  will  be 
Lady  Thetford  before  long." 

Miss  Jocyln's  short  upper-lip  curled  rather  scornfully,  and 
she  rose  up  with  a  little  air  of  petulance  and  walked  acrosr. 
the  room  to  the  opposite  window.  It  commanded  a  view 
of  the  lawn  and  a  long  wooded  drive,  and,  cantering  airily 
opuxxder  the  waving  trees,  she  saw  the  young  lady  of  whom 


I 


70 


S/Ji  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


she  had  been  thinking.  The  pretty,  fleet-footed  pony  and 
his  bright  little  mistress  were  by  no  means  rare  visitors  at 
Jocyln  Hall,  and  Miss  Jocyln  was  always  elaborately  civil  to 
Miss  Everard.  Very  pretty  little  ]\Iay  looked — all  her  tin- 
seled curls  floating  in  the  breeze,  like  a  golden  banner;  the 
blue  eyes  more  starily  radiant  than  ever,  the  dark  riding- 
habit  and  jaunty  hat  and  plume  the  most  becoming  things 
in  the  world.  She  saw  Miss  Jocyln  at  the  window,  kissed 
her  hand  and  resigned  Arab  to  the  groom.  A  minute  more 
and  she  was  saluting  Aileen  with  effusion. 

"You  solemn  Aileen  !  to  sit  and  mope  here  in  the  house, 
instead  of  improving  your  health  and  temper  by  a  breezy 
canter  over  tlie  downs.  Don't  contradict ;  I  know  you 
were  moping.  I  should  be  afraid  to  tell  you  how  many 
miles  Arab  and  I  have  got  over  this  morning.  And  you 
never  came  to  see  me  yesterday,  either.     Why  was  it  ?  " 

**  I  didn't  feel  inclined,"  Miss  Jocyln  answered,  truth- 
fully. 

"No,  you  never  do  feel  inclined  unless  I  come  and  drag 
you  out  by  force;  you  sit  in  the  house  and  grow  yellow  and 
jaundiced  over  high-church  novels.  I  declare  I  never  met 
80  many  lazy  people  in  all  my  life  as  1  have  done  since 
I  came  home.  One  don't  mind  mtunma,  poor  thing  1 
shutting  herself  up  and  the  sunshine  and  fresh  air  of  heaven 
out;  but,  for  you  and  Rupert !  And,  speaking  of  Rupert," 
ran  on  Miss  Everard  in  a  breathless  sort  of  v.'ay,  "  he 
wanted  to  commence  his  great  picture  of  '  Fair  Rosamond 
and  Eleanor'  yesterday — and  how  could  he  when  Eleanor 
never  came?     Why  didn't  you — you  promised ?  " 

"I  changed  my  mind,  I  suppose." 

"  And  broke  your  word—more  shame  fr^  you?  then  J 
Come  now," 

"No;  thanks.     It's  going  to  rain." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort  ^  and  Rupert  ia  so  anxious.    Vbb 


S/Ji  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


n 


would  have  come  himself,  only  my  lady  is  ill  to-day  with 
one  of  her  bad  headaches,  and  asked  him  to  read  her  to 
sleep ;  and,  like  the  good  boy  that  he  is  in  the  main,  though 
shockingly  lazy,  he  obeyed.  Do  come,  Aileeu ;  there's  a 
dear  !     Don't  be  selfish." 

Miss  Jocyln  rose  rather  abruptly. 

*'  I  have  no  desire  to  be  selfish.  Miss  Everard.  If  you 
will  wait  ten  minutes  whilst  1  dress,  I  will  accompany  you 
to  Thetford  Towers." 

She  rang  the  bell  and  swept  from  the  room,  stately  and 
uplifted.     May  looked  after  her,  fidgeting  a  little. 

**  Dear  me  I  I  suppose  she's  offended  now  at  that  word 
'selfish.'  I  never  dii/ get  on  very  well  with  Aileen  Jocyln, 
and  I'm  afraid  I  never  shall.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
were  jealous." 

Miss  Everard  laughed  a  little  silvery  laugh  all  to  herself, 
and  slapped  her  kid  riding-boot  with  her  pretty  toy  whip. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  iuterrupt  a  tender  declaration  that 
night  in  the  conservatory,  but  it  looked  like  it.  If  I  did, 
I  am  sure  Rupert  has  had  fifty  chances  since,  and  I  know 
he  hasn't  availed  himself  of  them,  or  Aileen  would  nevef 
wear  that  dissatisfied  face.  I  know  she's  in  love  with  himf 
though,  to  be  sure,  she  would  see  me  impaled  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  if  she  only  thought  I  suspected  it ;  but  I'm 
not  so  certain  about  him.  He's  a  great  deal  too  indolent 
in  the  first  place,  to  get  up  a  grand  passion  for  anybody, 
and  I  think  he's  inclined  to  look  graciously  on  me — poof 
little  me — in  the  second.  You  may  spare  yourself  the 
trouble,  my  dear  Sir  Rupert ;  for  a  gentleman  whose  chief 
aim  in  existence  is  to  smoke  Turkish  pipes  and  lie  on  the 
grass  and  write  and  read  poetry  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  man 
I  mean  to  bless  for  life." 

The  two  girls  descended  to  the  court-yard,  mounted  and 
rode  off.     Both  rode  weli^  aud  both  looked  their  best  on 


1 
I 

il 
ll 


92 


shi  JrOELV  HEIR, 


horseback,  and  made  a  wonderfully  pretty  picture  as  they 
galloped  through  St.  Gosport  in  dashing  style,  bringing  the 
admiring  population  in  a  rush  to  doors  and  windows.  Per- 
haps Sir  Rupert  Thetford  thought  so,  too,  as  he  stood  at 
the  great  front  entrance  to  receive  them,  with  a  kindling 
light  in  his  artist's  eyes. 

**  May  said  she  would  fetch  you,  and  May  always  keeps 
her  word,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  slowly  up  the  sweeping 
Bta,ircase;  "besides,  Aileen,  I  am  to  have  the  first  sitting 
for  the  *  Rosamond  and  Eleanor '  to-day,  am  I  not  ?  May 
calls  me  an  idle  dreamer,  a  useless  drone  in  the  busy  human 
hive  ;  so,  to  vindicate  my  character  and  cleave  a  niche  in 
the  temple  of  fame,  I  am  going  to  immortalize  myself  over 
this  painting." 

**  You'll  never  finish  it,"  said  May ;  "  it  will  be  like  all 
the  rest.  You'll  begin  on  a  gigantic  scale  and  with  super- 
human efforts,  and  you'll  cool  down  and  get  sick  of  it  be- 
fore it  is  half  finished,  and  it  will  go  to  swell  the  pile  of 
daubed  canvas  in  your  studio  now.  Don't  tell  me  I  I 
know  you." 

"And  have  the  poorest  possible  opinion  of  me.  Miss 
Everard  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have !  I  have  no  patience  when  I  think  what 
you  might  do,  what  you  might  become,  and  see  what  you 
are  !  If  you  were  not  Sir  Rupert  Thetford,  with  a  princely 
income,  you  might  be  a  great  man.     As  it  is " 

"  As  it  is  !  "  cried  the  young  baronet,  trying  to  laugh 
and  reddening  violently,  "  I  will  still  be  a  great  man — a 
modern  Murillo.  Are  you  not  a  little  severe,  Miss  Ever- 
ard ?  Aileen,  I  believe  this  is  your  first  visit  to  my  stu- 
dio ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Jocyln,  coldly  and  briefly.  She  did 
not  like  the  conversation,  and  May  Everard's  familiar  home- 
truths  stung  her.    To  her  he  was  everything  mortal  man 


SIR  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


73 


jhmild  be ;  she  was  proud,  but  she  was  not  ambitious ; 
what  right  had  tliis  penniless  little  free-speaker  to  come  be- 
tween them  and  talk  like  this  ? 

May  was  flitting  about  like  the  fairy  she  was,  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  like  a  critical  canary,  her  flowing  skirt 
held  up,  inspecting  the  pictures. 

**  'Jeannie  D'Arc  before  her  Judges,'  half  finished,  as 
usual,  and  never  to  be  completed ;  and  weak — very,  if  it 
ever  was  completed.  '  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field,'  in  flam- 
ing colors,  all  confusion  and  smoke  and  red  ochre  and  rub- 
bish ;  you  did  well  not  to  trouble  yourself  any  more  with 
that.  '  Swiss  Peasant ' — ah  !  that  is  pretty.  *  Storm  at 
Sea,'  just  tolerable.  'Trial  of  Marie  Antoinette.'  My 
dear  Rupert,  why  will  you  persist  in  these  figure  paintings 
when  you  know  your  forte  is  landscape  ?  '  An  Evening  in 
the  Eternal  City.'  Now,  that  is  what  I  call  an  exquisite 
little  thing  !  Look  at  the  moon,  Aileen,  rising  over  those 
hill-tops ;  and  see  those  trees — you  can  almost  feel  the  wind 
that  blows !  And  that  prostrate  figure — why,  that  looks 
like  yourself,  Rupert  1  " 

«' It  ij  myself." 

«*  And  the  other,  stooping — ^who  is  he?" 

**  The  painter  of  that  picture.  Miss  Everard ;  yes,  the 
only  thing  in  my  poor  studio  you  see  fit  to  eulogize  is  not 
mine.  It  was  done  by  an  artist  friend — an  unknown  En- 
glishman, who  saved  ray  life  in  Rome  three  years  ago. 
Come  in,  mother  mine,  and  defend  your  son  from  the  two- 
edged  sword  of  May  Everard's  tongue." 

For  Lady  Thetford,  pale  and  languid,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  wrapped  in  a  shawl. 

**  It's  all  for  his  good,  mamma.  Come  here  and  look  at 
this*  Evening  in  the  Eternal  City.'  Rupert  has  nothing 
like  it  in  all  his  collection,  though  these  are  the  beginning 


M 


74 


SIR  NOEL  'S  HETR. 


of  many  better  things.    He  saved  your  life  ?    How  was 
it  ?  " 

"Oh  I  a  little  affair  with  brigands ;  nothing  very  thrill- 
ing, but  I  should  have  been  killed  or  captured  all  the  same, 
if  this  Legard  had  not  come  to  the  rescue.  May  is  right 
about  the  picture  ;  he  painted  well,  had  come  to  Rome  to 
perfect  himself  in  his  art.     Yery  fine  fellow,  Legard." 

«*  Legard  !  " 

It  was  Lady  Thetford  who  had  spoken  sharply  and  sud- 
denly. She  had  put  up  her  glass  to  look  at  the  Italian  pic- 
ture, but  dropped  it,  and  faced  abruptly  round. 

"Yes,  Legard.  Guy  Legard,  a  young  Englishman, 
about  my  own  age.  By-the-bye,  if  you  saw  him,  you  would 
be  surprised  by  his  singular  resemblance  to  some  of  those 
dead  and  gone  Thetfords  hanging  over  there  in  the  picture- 
gallery — fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  the  same  peculiar  cast  of 
features  to  a  shade.  I  was  rather  taken  aback,  I  confess, 
when  I  saw  it  first.     My  dear  mother " 

It  was  not  a  cry  Lady  Thetford  had  uttered — it  was  a 
kind  of  wordless  sob.  He  soon  caught  her  in  his  arms  and 
held  her  there,  her  face  the  color  of  death. 

"  Get  a  glass  of  water,  May — she  is  subject  to  these  at- 
tacks.    Quick!" 

Lady  Thetford  drank  the  water,  and  sunk  back  in  the 
chair  Aileen  wheeled  up,  her  face  looking  awfully  corpse- 
like in  contrast  to  her  dark  garments  and  dead  black  hair. 

"  You  should  not  have  left  your  room,"  said  Sir  Rupert, 
**  after  your  attack  this  morning.  Perhaps  you  had  better 
return  and  lie  down.     You  look  perfectly  ghastly." 

*•  No,"  his  mother  sat  up  as  she  spoke  and  pushed  away 
the  glass,  **  there  is  no  necessity  for  lying  down.     Don't 
wear  that  scared  face.  May — it  was  nothing,  I  assure  you. 
Go  on  with  what  you  were  saying,  Rupert." 
,     "  What  I  was  saying  ?    What  was  it  ?  " 


STR  NOEL  *S  BETH, 


7$ 


*'  About  this  young  artist's  resemblance  to  the  Thet- 
fords." 

"Oh  I  well,  there's  no  more  to  say;  that  is  all.  He 
saved  my  life  and  he  painted  that  picture,  and  we  were 
Damon  and  Pythias  over  again  during  my  stay  in  Rome.  I 
always  (fa  fraternize  with  those  sort  of  fellows,  you  know ; 
and  I  left  him  in  Rome,  and  he  promised,  if  he  ever  re- 
turned to  England — which  he  wasn't  so  sure  of — he  would 
run  down  to  Devonshire  to  see  me  and  my  painted  ances- 
tors, whom  he  resembles  so  strongly.  That  is  all ;  and 
now,  young  ladies,  if  you  will  take  your  places  we  will 
commence  on  the  Rosamond  and  Eleanor.  Mother,  sit 
here  by  this  window  if  you  want  to  play  propriety,  and 
don't  talk." 

But  Lady  Thetford  chose  to  go  to  her  own  room,  and 
her  son  gave  her  his  arm  thither  and  left  her  lying  back 
amongst  her  cushions  in  front  of  the  fire.  It  was  always 
chilly  in  those  great  and  somewhat  gloomy  rooms,  and  her 
ladyship  was  always  cold  of  late.  She  lay  there  looking 
with  gloomy  eyes  into  the  ruddy  blaze,  and  holding  her 
hands  over  her  painfully  beming  heart. 

"It  is  destiny,  I  suppose,"  she  thought,  bitterly ;  "let 
me  banish  him  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  earth ;  let  mC 
keep  him  in  poverty  and  obscurity  all  his  life,  and  when 
the  day  comes  that  it  is  written,  Guy  Legard  will  be  here. 
Sooner  or  later  the  vow  I  have  broken  to  Sir  Noel  Thetford 
must  be  kept;  sooner  or  later  Sir  Noel's  heir  will  have  his 


own. 


St 


f6 


&r£  NOEL'S  HEJR, 


CHAPTER  X. 


ASKING  IN   MARRIAGE. 


A  nRE  bi  -'d  in  Lady  Thetford's  room,  and  among 
|)iles  of  silken  pillows  my  lady,  languid  and  pale,  lay, 
looking  into  the  leaping  flame.  It  was  a  hot  July  morning, 
the  son  blazed  like  a  wheel  of  fire  in  a  sky  without  a  cloud, 
but  Lady  Thetford  was  always  chilly  of  late.  She  drew 
the  crimson  shawl  she  wore  closer  around  her,  and  glanced 
impatiently  now  and  then  at  the  pretty  toy  clock  on  the 
decorated  chimney-piece.  The  house  was  very  still ;  its 
one  disturbing  element,  Miss  Evrared,  was  absent  with 
Sir  Rupert  for  a  morning  canter  over  the  sunny  Devon 
hills. 

"How  long  they  stay,  and  these  solitary  rides  are  so 
dangerous  !  Oh  !  what  will  become  of  me  if  it  is  too  late, 
after  all !     What  shall  I  do  if  he  says  no  ?  " 

There  was  a  quick  man's  step  without — a  moment  and 
the  door  opened,  and  Sir  Rupert,  "  booted  and  spurred  " 
from  his  ride,  was  bending  over  his  mother. 

"  Louise  says  you  sent  for  me  after  I  left.  What  is  it, 
mother — you  are  not  worse  ?" 

He  knelt  beside  her.  Lady  Thetford  put  back  the  fair 
brown  hair  with  tender  touch,  and  gazed  in  the  handsome 
face.-  so  like  her  own,  with  eyes  full  of  unspeakable  love. 

"My  boy  1  my  boy  !"  she  murmured,  "  my  darling 
Rupert !  Oh  1  it  is  hard,  it  is  bitter  to  have  to  leave 
you  ! " 

"Mother !  '*  with  a  quick  look  of  alarm,  "  what  is  it? 
Are  you  worse  ?  " 


SIR  NOEL  *S  HEIR. 


77 


**  No  worse,  Rupert ;  but  no  better.  My  boy,  I  shall 
never  be  better  again  in  this  world." 

"  Mother " 

*' Hush,  my  Rupert — wait;  you  know  it  is  true;  and 
but  for  leaving  you  I  should  be  glad  to  go.  My  life  has  not 
been  so  happy  since  your  father  died,  that  I  should  greatly 
cling  to  it." 

•'  But,  mother,  this  won't  do  ;  these  morbid  fancies  are 
worst  of  all.     Keeping  up  one's  spirits  is  half  the  battle." 

•*  I  am  not  morbid ;  I  merely  state  a  fact — a  fact  which 
must  preface  what  is  to  come.     Rupert,  I  know  I  am  dy- 
ing, and  before  we  part  I  want  to  see  my  successor  at  Thet 
ford  Towers." 

"  My  dear  mother  !  "  amazedly. 

"  Rupert,  I  want  to  see  Aileen  Jocyln  your  wife.  No, 
no ;  don't  interrupt  me,  but  believe  me,  I  dislike  match- 
making quite  as  cordially  as  you  do ;  but  my  days  on  earth 
are  numbered,  and  I  must  speak  before  it  is  too  late. 
Whin  we  were  abroad  I  thought  there  never  would  be  oc- 
casion ;  when  we  returned  home  1  thought  so,  too.  Ru- 
pert, 1  have  ceased  to  think  so  since  May  Everhard's  re- 
turn." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  suddenly  and  hotly,  but 
he  made  no  reply. 

**  How  any  man  in  his  senses  could  possibly  prefer  May 
to  Aileen,  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  solve;  but  then  these 
things  puzzle  the  wisest  of  us  at  times.  Mind,  my  boy, 
I  don't  really  say  you  do  prefer  May — I  should  be  very 
unhappy  if  I  thought  so.  I  know — I  am  certain  you  love 
Aileen  best ;  and  I  am  equally  certain  she  is  a  thousand 
times  better  suited  to  you.  Then,  as  a  man  of  honor, 
you  owe  it  to  her.  You  have  paid  Miss  Jocyln  such  atten- 
tions as  no  honorable  gentleman  should  pay  any  lady,  save 
the  one  he  means  to  make  his  wife." 


79 


-STR  NOEL  *S  ffE/JH" 


III 


III 


Lady  Thetford's  son  rose  abruptly,  and  stood  leanlxig 
jigainst  the  mantle,  looking  into  the  fire. 

"Rupert,  tell  me  truly,  if  May  Everard  had  not  come 
here,  would  you  not  ere  this  have  asked  Aileeen  to  be  youi 
wife?" 

"  Yes — no — 1  don't  know  !  Mother !  '*  the  young  man 
cried,  impatiently,  "  what  has  May  Everard  done  that  you 
ihould  treat  her  like  this?" 

'*  Nothing}  and  I  love  her  dearly,  and  you  know  it.  But 
ahe  is  not  suited  to  you — she  is  not  the  woman  you  should 
marry." 

Sir  Rupert  laughed — a  hard  strident  laugh. 

"  I  think  Miss  Everard  is  much  of  your  opinion,  my  lady. 
You  might  have  spared  yourself  all  these  fears  and  perplex- 
ities, for  the  simple  reason  that  I  should  have  been  refused 
had  I  asked." 

*'  Rupert  I"  <■ 

*'Nay,  mother  mine,  no  need  to  wear  that  frightened 
face.  I  haven't  asked  Miss  Everard  in  so  many  words  to 
marry  me,  and  <jlie  hasn't  declined  with  thanks ;  but  she 
would  if  I  did.     I  saw  enough  to-day  of  that." 

**  Then  you  don't  care  for  Aileen  ?  "  with  a  look  of  blank 
consternation. 

'•  1  care  for  her  very  much,  mother ;  and  I  haven't  owned 
to  being  absolutely  in  love  with  our  pretty  little  May.  Per- 
haps i  care  for  one  as  much  as  the  other;  perhaps  I  know 
in  my  icmost  heart  she  is  the  one  I  should  marry.  That 
iSj  if  she  will  marry  me." 

"  You  owe  it  to  her  to  ask  her.'* 

"Do  I ?  V^ery  likely  j  and  it  would  make  you  happy, 
my  mother?  " 

H«  came  and  bent  over  her  again,  smiling  down  in  her 
wanj  anxious  face. 


SIR  NOEL  'S  HEIR. 


79 


**  More  happy  than  anything  else  in  this  world,  Ru- 
pert 1" 

*'  Then  consider  it  an  accomplished  fact.  Before  the  sun 
sets  to-day  Aileen  Jocyln  shall  say  yes  or  no  to  your  son." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her;  then,  without  waiting  for  her 
to  speak,  wheeled  round  and  strode  out  of  the  apartment. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  striking  whilst  the  iron  is  hot,' 
said  the  young  man  to  himself,  with  a  grim  sort  of  smile, 
as  he  ran  down-stairs. 

Loitering  on  the  lawn,  he  encountered  May  Everard, 
Etill  in  her  riding-habit,  surrounded  by  three  or  four  poodle- 
dogs. 

"On  the  wing  again,  Rupert?  Is  it  for  mamma?  She 
is  not  worse?"  . 

**  No;  I  am  going  to  Jocyln  Hall.  Perhaps  I  shall  fetch 
Aileen  back." 

May's  turquoise  blue  eye3  were  lifted  with  a  sudden 
luminous,  intelligent  flash  to  his  fact. 

*'  God  speed  you  !  You  will  certainly  fetch  Aileen 
back  1  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  that  told  him  she 
knew  all  as  plainly  as  he  knew  it  himself. 

*<  You  have  my  best  wishes,  Rupert,  and  don't  linger;  I 
I  want  to  congratulate  Aileen." 

Sir  Rupert's  response  to  these  good  wishes  was  very  brief 
and  curt.  Miss  Everard  watched  him  mount  and  ride  offp 
with  a  mischievous  little  smile  rippling  round  her  rosy  lips. 

**  My  lady  has  been  giving  the  idol  of  her  existence  a 
candle  lecture — subject,  matrimony,"  mused  Miss  Everard, 
sauntering  lazily  along  in  the  midst  of  her  little  dogs: 
"  and  really  it  is  high  time,  if  she  means  to  have  Aileen 
for  a  daughter-in-law,  for  the  heir  of  Thetford  Towers  is 
rather  doubtful  that  he  is  not  falling  in  love  with  me  ;  and 
Aileen  is  dreadfully  jealous  and  disagreeable ;  ani  m/ 


A) 


Sm  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


lady  is  a»ixious  and  fidgeted  to  death  about  it ;  and— oh-hph  I 
(^ood  ^acious !  " 

Miss  Everard  stopped  with  a  shrill,  feminine  shriek.  She 
had  ioitered  down  to  the  gates,  where  a  young  man  stood 
tahi  ■ifj  to  fhe  lodge-keeper,  with  a  big  Newfoundland  dog 
gamboling  ponderously  about  him.  The  big  Newfoundland 
made  an  ijistant  dash  into  Miss  Everard's  guard  of  honor, 
with  one  deep,  bass  bark,  like  distant  thunder,  and  which 
etfectuuily  drowned  the  yelps  of  the  poodles,  I^Iay  flew  to 
-th«%.  re-icu:',  seizing  the  Newfoundland's  collar  and  pulling 
bim  back  with  al!  the  might  of  two  little  white  hands. 

"You  big,  horrid  brute!"  cried  May,  with  flashing 
ejcs,  **  how  dare  you  I  Call  off  your  dog,  sir,  this  instant ! 
Don't  you  see  how  he  is  frightening  mine  i  " 

She  turned  imperiously  to  the  Newfoundland's  macter, 
the  bright  eyes  flashing,  the  pink  cheeks  aflame — very 
pretty,  indeed,  in  her  wrath. 

"Down,  Hector!"  called  the  young  man,  authorita- 
tively ;  and  Hector,  like  the  well-trained  animal  he  was, 
subsided  instantly.  **I  beg  your  pardon,  young  lady! 
Hector,  you  stir  at  your  peril,  sir  1  I  em  very  sorry  he  has 
alarmed  you." 

He  doffed  his  cap  with  careless  grace,  and  made  the 
angry  little  lady  a  courtly  bow. 

"  He  didn't  alarm  me,"  replied  May,  testily;  "he  only 
alarmed  my  dogs.     Why,  dear  mel     how  very  odd  !  " 

Miss  Everard,  looking  full  at  the  young  man,  had  started 
back  with  this  exclamation  and  stared  broadly.  A  tall, 
powerful-looking  young  fellow,  rather  dusty  and  travel- 
stained,  but  eminently  gentlem.anly,  with  frank  blue  eyea 
and  profuse  fair  hair,  and  a  handsome,  candid  face. 

"Yes,  Miss  May,"  struck  in  the  lodge-keeper,  ** It  is 
odd  1  I  see  it,  too !  He  looks  enough  like  Sir  Noel,  dead 
and  gone,  to  be  his  own  son  I" 


SIR  NOEL  *S  HEFR. 


8l 


44 


'I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  May,  becoming  conscious  of 
her  wide  stare,  "but  is  your  name  Legard,  and  are  you  a 
friend  of  ^-ir  Rupert  Thetford  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  both  questions,"  with  a  smile  that  May  liked. 
•'*You  see  the  resemblance  too,  then.  Sir  Rupert  used  to 
speak  of  it.     Is  he  at  home  ?  " 

"Not  just  now;  but  he  will  be  very  soon,  and  I  know 
will  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Legard.  You  had  belter  come  in 
and  wait." 

**  And  Hector,"  said  Mr.  Legard,  "  I  think  I  had  bet- 
ter leave  hiia  behind,  as  I  see  him  eying  your  guard  of 
honor  with  anything  but  a  friendly  eye.  I  believe  I  have 
the  pleasure  of  addressing  Miss  Everard?  Oh  !  "  laughing 
frankly  at  her  surprised  face,  "Sir  Rupert  showed  me  a 
photograph  of  yours  as  a  child.  I  have  a  good  memory 
for  faces,  and  knew  you  at  once." 

Mi«s  Everard  and  Mr.  Legard  fell  easily  into  conversa- 
tion at  once,  as  if  they  had  been  old  friends.  Lady  Thet- 
ford's  v/ard  was  one  of  those  people  who  form  their  likes 
and  dislikes  at  first  sight,  and  Mr.  Legard's  face  would 
have  been  a  pretty  sure  letter  of  recommendation  to  him 
the  wide  world  over.  May  liked  his  looks;  and  then  he 
was  Sir  Rupert's  friend,  and  she  was  never  over  particular 
about  social  forms  and  customs ;  and  so  they  dawdled 
about  the  grounds  and  through  the  leafy  arcades,  in  the 
genial  simshine,  talking  about  Sir  Rupert  and  Rome,  and 
art  and  artists,  and  the  thousand  and  one  things  that  turn 
up  in  conversation  ;  and  the  moments  slipped  by,  lialf  hour 
followed  half  hour,  until  May  jerked  out  her  watch  at  last, 
in  a  sudden  fit  of  recollection,  and  found,  to  her  consterna^ 
tion,  it  was  past  two. 

"  What  will  mamma  say  1  "  cried  the  young  lady,  aghast. 
"  And  Rupert ;  I  dare  say  he's  home  to  luncheon  before 


82 


SiJi  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


this.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  bouse,  Mr.  Legard.  I  had  no 
idea  it  was  half  so  late." 

Mr.  Legard  laughed  frankly. 

*'  The  honesty  of  that  speech  is  the  highest  flattery  my 
conversational  powers  ever  received,  M:.v.  Evcrard.  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you.  Ah !  by  Jove !  Sir  Kupert 
himself!" 

For  riding  slowly  up  under  the  sunlit  trees  came  the 
young  baronet.  As  Mr.  Legard  spoke,  his  glance  fell  upon 
them,  the  young  lady  and  gentleman  advancing  so  confi- 
dentially, with  half  a  dozen  curly  poodles  frisking  about 
them.  To  say  Sir  Rupert  stared  would  be  a  mild  way  of 
putting  it — his  eyes  opened  in  wide  wonder. 

'«  Guy  Legard  !  " 

"  Thetford  !     My  dear  Sir  Rupert ! " 

The  baronet  leaped  off  his  horse,  his  eyes  lighting,  and 
shook  hands  v/ith  the  artist,  in  a  b'irst  of  heartiness  very 
rare  with  him. 

"  Where  in  the  world  did  you  drop  from,  and  how  under 
the  sun  did  you  come  to  be  like  this  with  May  ?  " 

•*  I  leave  the  explanation  to  Mr.  Legard,"  said  May, 
blushing -a  little  under  Sir  Rupert's  glance,  "whilst  I  go 
and  see  mamma,  only  premising  that  luncheon  hour  is  paat^ 
and  you  had  better  not  linger." 

She  tripped  away,  and  the  two  young  men  followed  more 
slowly  into  the  house.  Sir  Rupert  led  his  friend  to  hii 
studio,  and  left  him  to  inspect  tlie  pictures. 

"  Whilst  I  speak  a  word  to  my  mother,"  he  said;  "''it 
will  detain  me  hardly  an  instant." 

"All  right!"  said  Mr.  legard,  boyishly.  "Don't 
hurry  yourself  on  my  account,  you  krow." 

Lady  Thetford  lay  where  her  son  had  left  her — ^layasif«ha 
had  hardly  stirred  since.    She  looked  up  and  half  rotse  as 


SJTR  NOEL 'S  NEIR. 


^ 


he  came  in,  her  eyes  painfully,  intensely  anxious.  But  his 
face,  grave  and  quiet,  told  nothing. 

*•  Well,"  she  panted,  her  eyes  glittering. 

**  It  is  well,  mother.  Aileen  Jocyln  has  promised  to  b&» 
come  my  wife." 

"  Thank  God  I  " 

Lady  Thetford  sunk  back,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  over 
her  heart,  its  loud  beating  plainly  audible.  Her  son  looked 
down  at  her,  his  face  keeping  its  steady  gravity — none  of 
the  rapture  of  An  accepted  lover  there. 

**  You  are  content,  motiier  ?  " 

"More  than  content,  Rupert.     And  you?  " 

He  smiled  and,  stooping,  kissed  the  warm,  pallid  face. 
**I  would  do  a  great  deal  to  make  you  happy,  mother  ;  but 
I  would  not  ask  a  woman  I  did  not  love  to  be  my  wife.  Be 
at  rest ;  all  is  well  with  me.  And  now  I  must  leave  you,  if 
you  will  not  go  down  to  luncheon." 

"I  think  not;  I  am  not  strong  to-day.  Is  May  wait- 
ing?" 

**More  than  May.  A  friend  of  mine  has  arrived,  and 
will  stay  with  us  for  a  few  weeks." 

Lady  Thetford's  face  had  been  flushed  and  eager,  but  af 
the  last  words  it  suddenly  blanched. 

"  A  friend,  Rupert  !     Who?" 

"  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  him  before,"  he  said^ 
carelessly;  •*  his  name  is  Guy  Legard." 


II 


t 


CHAPTER  XL 


ON  THE  WiiDDING  EVE. 


Thb  family  at  Thetford  Towers  were  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised, A  few  hours  later  that  day,  by  the  une.xpected  ap- 


84 


SIR  NOEL  'S  HEIR. 


pearance  of  Lady  Thetford  at  dinner.  Wan  as  some  spirit 
of  the  moonlight,  she  came  softly  in,  just  as  they  entered  the 
dining-room,  and  her  son  presented  his  friend,  Mr.  Le- 
gard,  at  once. 

"  His  resemblance  to  the  family  will  be  the  surest  passport 
to  your  favor,  mother  mine,"  Sir  Rupert  said,  gayly, 
"'Mrs.  Weymore  met  him  just  now,  and  recoiled  with  a 
shriek,  as  though  she  had  seen  a  ghost.  Extraordinary, 
isn't  it — -this  chance  reseml)lance  ?  " 

"Extraordinary,"  Lady  Thetford  said,  "  but  not  at  all 
unusual.  Of  course,  Mr.  Legard  is  not  even  remotely  con- 
nected with  the  Thetford  family?" 

She  asked  the  question  without  looking  at  him.  She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  plate,  for  that  frank,  fair  face  be- 
fore her  was  terrible  to  her,  almost  as  a  ghost.  It  was  the 
days  of  her  youth  OA^er  again,  and  Sir  Noel,  her  husband, 
once  more  by  her  side. 

*'  Not  that  I  am  aware  of,"  Mr,  Legard  said,  nmning  his 
fingers  through  his  abundant  brown  hair.  "  But  I  may  be 
for  all  that.  I  am  like  the  hero  of  a  novel — a  mysterious 
orphan — only,  unfortunately,  with  no  identifying  strawberry 
mark  on  my  arm.  Who  my  parents  were,  or  what  my  real 
name  is,  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  of  the  biography  o''  the 
man  in  the  moon." 

There  vvas  a  murmur  of  astonishment — May  and  Rupert 
vividly  interested,  l«i.dy  Thetford  white  as  a  c^    ^  womui. 
her  eyes  averted,  her  hand  trembling  as  if  pa   .od. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Legard,  gravely,  and  a  liule  sadly,  "  i 
"tand  as  totally  alone  in  this  world  as  a  human  beir,,  can 
stand — father,  mother,  brother,  sister,  Lnever  have  known; 
a  nameless,  penniless  waif,  I  was  cast  upon  the  world  four- 
and-twenty  years  ago.  Until  the  age  of  twelve  I  was  called 
Guy  Vyking ;  then  the  friends  v.-ith  whom  I  had  lived  left 
England  for  America,  and  a  raan-^a  painter,  named  Lc 


( i 


S/X  i\ruEL  *S  HEIR, 


«5 


gard — took  me  and  gave  me  his  name.  And  there  the  ro- 
mance comes  in  :  a  lady,  a  tall,  elegant  lady,  too  closely 
veiled  for  us  to  see  her  face,  came  to  the  poor  home  that 
was  mine,  paid  those  who  had  kept  me  from  my  infancy, 
and  paid  Legard  for  his  future  care  of  me.  I  have  never 
seen  her  since  ;  and  I  sometimes  think,"  his  voice  failing, 
""'that  she  may  have  been  my  mother." 

There  was  a  sudden  clash,  and  a  momentary  confusion. 
My  lady,  lifting  her  glass  with  that  shaking  hand,  had  let 
it  fall,  and  it  was  shivered  to  atoms  on  the  floor. 

"  And  you  never  saw  the  lady  afterward  ?  "  May  asked. 

"  Never.  Legard  received  regular  remittances,  mailed, 
oddly  enough,  from  your  town  here — Plymouth.  The  lady 
told  him,  if  he  ever  had  occasion  to  address  her — which  he 
never  did  have,  that  I  know  of—to  address  Madam  Ada, 
Plymouth  1  He  brought  me  up,  educated  me,  taught  me 
his  art  and  died.  I  was  old  enough  then  to  comprehend 
my  position,  and  the  first  use  I  made  of  that  know]  dge 
was  to  return  *  Madam  Ada '  her  remittances,  with  a  few 
sharp  lines  that  eflectually  put  an  end  to  hers." 

*'  Have  you  never  tried  to  ferret  out  the  mystery  of  youT 
birth  and  this  Madam  Ada  ?"  inquired  Sir  Rupert. 

Mr.  Legard  shook  his  head. 

'*  No ;  why  should  I  ?  I  dare  say  I  should  have  no  rea- 
son to  be  proud  of  ray  parents  if  I  did  find  them,  and 
they  evidently  were  not  very  proud  oi  me.  '  Where 
ignorance  is  bliss,'  etc.  If  destiny  has  decreed  it, 
I  shall  know,  sooner  or  later ;  if  destiny  has  not,  then  my 
puny  efforts  will  be  of  no  avail.  But  if  presentiments 
mean  anything,  I  shall  one  day  know;  and  I  have  no 
doubt,  if  I  searched  Devonshire,  I  should  find  Madam 
Ada." 

May  Everard  started  up  with  a  cry,  for  Lady  Thetford 
bad  fallen  back  in  one  of  these  sudden  spasms  to  which 


Pi 


II 

H 

i 


86 


SIJi  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


she  had  lately  become  subject.  In  the  universal  constat 
nation  Guy  Legard  and  his  story  were  forgotten. 

**I  hope  what  /  said  had  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  he 
cried,  aghast ;  a.-d  the  one  following  so  suddenly  upon  the 
other  made  the  remaik  natural  enough.  But  Sir  Rupert 
turned  upon  him  in  haughty  surprise, 

"  What  you  said  !  Laay  Thetford,  unfortunately,  has 
been  subject  to  these  attacks  for  the  past  two  years,  Mr. 
Legard.  That  will  do,  May  ;  let  me  assist  ray  mother  to 
her  room." 

May  drew  back.  Lady  Thetford  was  able  to  rise,  ghastly 
and  trembling,  and,  supported  by  her  son's  arm,  walked 
from  the  room. 

**  Lady  Thetford's  health  is  very  delicate,  I  fear,"  Mr. 
Legard  murmured,  sympathetically.  "  I  really  thought 
for  a  moment  ray  story-telling  had  occasioned  her  sudden 
illness." 

Miss  Everard  fixed  a  pair  of  big,  shining  eyes  in  solemn 
scrutiny  on  his  face — that  face  so  like  the  pictured  one  of 
Sii    Mjel  Thetford. 

"  A  very  natural  supposition,"  thought  the  young  lady  ; 
"so  did/." 

"You  never  knew  Sir  Noel?  "  Guy  Legard  said,  mus- 
ingly ;  *'but,  of  course,  you  did  not.  Sir  Rupert  has  told 
BDC  he  died  brfore  he  was  born." 

*' I  never  ^aw  him,"  said  May;  <' but  those  who  have 
seen  him  in  this  house — our  housekeeper,  for  instance- 
stand  perfectly  petrified  at  your  extraordinary  likeness  to 
him.  Mrs.  Hilliard  says  you  have  given  her  a  '  turn '  she 
never  expects  to  get  over." 

Mr.  Legard  smiled,  but  was  grave  again  directly. 

*•  It  is  odd — odd — very  odd  1  " 

**  Yes,  "said  May  Everard,  with  a  sagajcioua  nod ;  "• 


sin  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


^ 


great  deal,  too,  to  be  a  chance  resemblance.  Hush  !  here 
comes  Rupert.     Well,  how  have  you  left  mr.mma?  " 

'*  Better  j  Louise  is  with  her.  And  now  to  finish  dinner  j 
I  have  an  engagement  for  the  evening." 

Sir  Rupert  was  strangely  silent  and  distrait  all  through 
dinncc,  a  darkly  thouglvtful  shadow  glooming  his  ever  pale 
face.  A  supposition  had  flashed  across  his  mind  that  turned 
him  hot  and  cold  by  turns — a  supposition  that  was  almost 
a  certainty.  This  striking  resemblance  of  the  painter  Le- 
gard  to  his  dead  father  was  no  freak  of  nature,  but  a  retrib- 
utive Providence  revealing  the  truth  of  his  birth.  It  came 
back  to  his  memory  with  painfully  acute  clearness  that  his 
mother  had  sunk  down  once  before  in  a  violent  tremor  and 
faintness  at  the  mere  sound  of  his  name.  Lcgard  had 
spoken  of  a  veiled  lady — Madam  Ada,  Plymouth,  her  ad- 
dress. Could  his  mother — his — be  that  mysterious  arbiter 
of  his  fate?  The  name — the  place.  Sir  Rupert  3'hetford 
wrenched  his  thoughts,  by  a  violent  effort,  away,  «?hocked 
at  himself. 

**  It  cannot  be — it  cannot  1  "  he  said  to  hitr^elf  pas- 
sionately. "  I  am  mad  to  harbor  such  thoughts.  It  is  a 
desecration  of  the  memory  of  the  dead,  a  treason  to  the 
living.     But  I  wish  Guy  Legard  had  never  come  here." 

There  was  one  other  person  at  Thetford  Towers  strangely 
and  strongly  affected  by  Mr.  Guy  Legard,  and  that  person, 
oddly  enough,  was  Mrs.  Weymore,  the  governess.  Mrs. 
Weymore  had  never  even  seen  the  late  Sir  Noel  that  any  one 
knew  of,  and  yet  she  had  recoiled  with  a  shrill,  feminine 
cry  of  utter  consternation  at  sight  of  the  young  man. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  get  the  fidgets  about  it, 
Mrs.  Weymore,"  Miss  Everard  remarked,  wivh  iier  great, 
bright  eyes  suspiciously  kefn^  **you  never  knew  Sir 
NoeL" 


H 

\ 

It 

i 


88 


S/H  NOEL*S  HEm. 


Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  a  lounge  in  a  violent  tremoz 
and  faintness. 

"  My  dear,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I — it  seems  strange, 
Oh,  May  I  "  with  a  sudden,  sharp  cry,  losing  self-control, 
"  who  is  that  young  rnan  ?  " 

''Why,  Mr.  Guy  Legard,  artist,"  answered  May,  com- 
posedly, the  bright  eyes  still  on  the  alert  3  formerly — in 
*  boyhood's  sunny  hours,'  you  know — Master  Guy.  Let— 
me — see  I    Yes,  Vyking." 

'*  Vyking  !  "  with  a  spasmodic  cry;  and  then  Mrs.  Wey- 
more dropped  her  white  face  in  her  hands,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

**  Well,  upon  my  word,"  Miss  Everard  said,  addressing 
empty  space,  "  this  does  cap  the  globe  1  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  were  plain  reading  compared  to  Mr.  Guy  Vyking 
and  the  effect  he  produces  upon  the  people.  He's  a  ver> 
handsome  young  man,  and  a  very  agreeable  young  man ; 
but  I  should  never  have  suspected  he  possessed  the  power 
pf  throwing  all  the  elderly  ladies  he  meets  into  gasping  fits. 
There's  Lady  Thetford  :  he  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she 
<ad  to  be  helped  out  of  the  dining-room ;  and  here's  Mrs. 
iVeymore  going  into  hysterics  because  he  used  to  be  called 
truy  Vyking.  I  thought  my  lady  might  be  the  veiled  lady 
of  his  story;  but  now  I  think  it  must  have  been  you." 

Mrs.  Weymore  looked  up,  her  very  lips  white. 

'*  The  veiled  lady  ?  What  lady  ?  May,  tell  me  all  you 
know  of  Mr.  Vyking." 

"Not  Vyking  now — Legard,"  answered  May  ;  and  there- 
upon the  younsj  lady  detailed  the  scanty  resume  the  artist 
had  given  them  of  his  history. 

♦*  And  I'm  very  sure  it  isn't  chance  at  all,"  concluded 
May  Everard,  transiixing  the  governess  with  an  unwinking 
stare ;  '*  and  Mr.  Legard  is  as  much  a  Thetford  as  Sir  Rupert 
himself.      I  don't  pretend  to  divinatioDi  of  course,  an^  | 


i, 


S/H  NOEL  'S  HEIR. 


89 


don't  dearly  see  how  it  is ;  but  it  is,  and  you  know  it, 
Mrs.  Weymore  ;  and  you  could  enlighten  the  young  man, 
and  so  could  my  lady,  if  either  of  you  chose." 

Mrs.  Weymore  turned  suddenly  and  caught  May's  two 
hands  in  hers. 

"  May,  if  you  care  for  me,  if  you  have  any  pity,  don't 
speak  of  this.  I  do  know — but  I  must  have  time.  My 
head  is  in  a  whirl.  Wait,  wait,  and  don't  tell  Mr.  Legard." 

"  I  won't,"  said  May;  "  but  it  is  all  very  strange  and 
very  mysterious,  delightfully  like  a  three-volume  novel  or  a 
sensation  play.  I'm  getting  very  much  interested  in  the 
hero  of  the  performance,  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  deplora- 
bly in  love  with  him  shortly  if  this  sort  of  thing  keeps 
on." 

Mr.  Legard  himself  took  the  matter  much  more  coolly 
than  any  one  else ;  smoked  cigars  philosophically,  criticised 
Sir  Rupert's  pictures,  did  a  little  that  way  himself,  played 
billiards  with  his  host  and  chess  with  Miss  Everard,  rode 
with  that  young  lady,  walked  with  her,  sang  duets  with  her 
in  a  deep  melodious  bass,  made  himself  fascinating,  and 
look  the  world  easy. 

"It  is  no  use  getting  into  a  gale  about  these  things," 
he  said  to  Miss  Everard  when  she  wondered  aloud  at  his 
constitutional  phlegm  ;  "the  crooked  things  will  straighten 
of  themselves  if  we  give  them  time.  What  is  written  is 
written.  1  know  I  shall  find  out  all  about  myself  one  day 
— like  little  Paul  Dombey,  *  I  feel  it  in  my  bones.  '  " 

Mr.  Legard  was  thrown  a  good  deal  upon  Miss  Everard's 
resources  for  amusement ;  for,  of  course,  Sir  Rupert's  time 
was  chiefly  spent  at  Jocyln  Hall,  and  Mr.  Legard  bore  this 
with  even  greater  serenity  than  the  other.  Miss  Everard 
was  a  very  charming  little  girl,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  spheres  and  hundreds  of  be- 
witching little  ways ;  and  Mr.  Legard  undertook  to  paint 


8 


^9 


S/J(  NOEL  *S  HEIR. 


her  portrait,  and  found  it  the  most  absorbing  work  of 
art  he  had  ever  undertaken.  As  for  the  young  baronet 
spending  his  time  at  Jocyln  Hall,  they  never  missed  him. 
His  wooing  sped  on  smoothest  wings — Col.  Jocyln  almost 
as  much  pleased  as  my  lady  herself;  and  the  course  of  true 
love  in  this  case  ran  as  smooth  as  heart  could  wish. 

Miss  Jocyln,  as  a  matter  of  course,  was  a  great  deal  at 
Thetford  Towers,  and  saw  with  evident  gratification  the 
growing  intimacy  of  Mr.  Legard  and  May.  It  would  be 
an  eminently  suitable  match,  Miss  Jocyln  thought,  only  it 
"was  a  pity  so  much  mystery  shrouded  the  gentleman's  birth. 
Still,  he  was  a  gentleman,  and,  with  his  talents,  no  doubt 
would  become  an  eminent  artist;  and  it  would  be  1/ghly 
satisfactory  to  see  May  fix  her  erratic  affections  on  some- 
body, and  thus  be  doubly  out  of  her — Miss  Jocyln's — way. 

The  wedding  preparations  were  going  briskly  forward. 
There  was  no  need  of  delay ;  all  were  anxious  for  the  mar- 
riage— Lady  Thetford  more  than  anxious,  on  acccont  of  her 
declining  health.  The  hurry  to  have  the  ceremony  irre- 
vocably over  had  grown  to  be  something  very  like  a  mono- 
mania with  her. 

*'  I  feel  that  my  days  are  numbered,"  she  said,  with  inv 
patience,  to  her  son,  "and  I  cannot  rest  in  my  grave, 
Rupert,  until  I  see  Aileen  your  wife." 

So  Sir  Rupert,  more  than  anxious  to  please  his  mother, 
hastened  on  the  wedding.  An  eminent  physician,  sum- 
moned down  from  London,  confirmed  my  lady's  own  fears. 

"  Her  life  hung  by  a  thread,"  this  gentleman  said,  con- 
fidentially to  Sir  Rupert,  "  the  slightest  excitement  may 
snap  it  at  any  moment.  Don't  contradict  her — let  every- 
thing be  as  she  wishes.  Nothing  can  save  her,  but  perfect 
quiet  and  repose  may  prolong  her  existence." 

The  last  week  of  September  the  wedding  was  to  take 
place;  and  all  was  bustle  and  haste  at  Jocyln  Hall.    Mr. 


S/H  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


9» 


Legard  was  to  stay  for  the  wedding,  at  the  express  desire 
of  Lady  Thetford  herself.  She  had  seen  him  but  very 
rarely  since  that  first  day,  illness  had  compelled  her  to  keep 
her  room  ;  but  her  interest  in  him  was  unabated,  and  she 
had  sent  for  him  to  her  apartment,  and  invited  him  to  re- 
main. And  Mr.  Legard,  a  good  deal  surprised,  and  a  little 
flattered,  consented  at  once. 

**  Very  kind  of  Lady  Thetford,  you  know,  Miss  Ever- 
ard,"  Mr.  Legard  said,  sauntering  into  the  room  where  she 
sat  with  her  ex-governess — Mr.  Legard  and  Miss  Everard 
were  growing  higlily  confidential  of  late — *'  to  take  such  an 
interest  in  ari  iitter    tranger  as  she  does  in  me." 

May  stole  a  gla  ice  from  under  her  eyelashes  at  Mrs. 
Weymore ;  that  lady  sat  nervous  and  scared -looking,  and 
altogether  uncomfortable,  as  she  had  a  habit  of  doing  in 
the  young  artist's  presence. 

*'  Very,"  Miss  Everard  said,  dryly.  *'  You  ought  to  feel 
highly  complimented,  Mr.  Legard,  for  it's  a  sort  of  kind- 
ness her  ladyship  is  extremely  chsry  of  to  utter  strangers. 
Rather  odd,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Weymore?  " 

Mrs.  Weymore's  reply  was  a  distressed,  beseeching  look. 
Mr.  Legard  saw  it,  and  opened  very  wide  his  handsome, 
Saxon  eyes. 

"Eh?"  he  said,  "it  doesn't  mean  anything,  does  it? 
Mrs.  Weymore  looks  mysterious,  and  I'm  so  stupid  about 
these  things.  Lady  Thetford  doesn't  know  anything  about 
me,  does  she?  " 

"Not  that  /  know  of,"  May  said,  with  significant  em- 
phasis on  the  personal  pronoun. 

"Then  Mrs.  Weymore  doesl  By  Jove  I  I  always 
thought  Mrs.  Weymore  had  an  odd  way  of  looking  at  me  f 
And  now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  turned  his  fairj  resolute  face  to  that  lady  with  a  wan^ 
iMsd  to  resist. 


HI 
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; 


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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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WEBSTER.N  t.  14S80 

(716)872-4503 


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x 


92 


Sm  NOEL  '5  HEIJU. 


**  I  don't  make  much  of  a  howling  about  my  atTajrs,  70U 
know,  Mrs.  Weymore,"  he  said;  "but  for  all  that,  I  am 
none  the  less  interested  in  myself  and  my  history.  If  you 
can  open  the  mysteries  a  little  jou  will  be  conferring  a 
favor  on  me  I  can  never  repa^.  And  I  am  positive  from 
your  look  you  can." 

Mrs.  Weymore  turned  away,  and  covered  her  face  with  a 
sort  of  sob.  The  young  lady  and  gentleman  exchanged 
startled  glances. 

"You  can  then?"  Mr.  Legard  said,  gravely,  but  grow- 
ing very  pale.     '*  You  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

To  his  boundless  consternation  Mrs.  Weymore  rose  up 
and  fell  at  his  feet,  seizing  his  hands  and  covering  them 
with  kisses. 

**  I  do  1  I  do  i  I  know  who  you  are,  and  so  shall  you 
before  tnis  wedding  takes  place.  But  before  I  tell  you  I 
must  speak  to  Lady  Thetford." 

Mr.  Legard  raised  her  up,  his  face  as  colorless  as  her 
own. 

"  To  Lady  Thetford  I  What  has  Lady  Thetford  to  do 
with  me?" 

**  Everything  !  She  knows  who  you  are  as  v*ell  as  J  4o. 
I  must  speak  to  her  first." 

**  Answer  me  one  thing — is  my  name  Vyking?" 

"  No,  Pray,  pray  don't  ask  me  any  more  questions.  As 
soon  as  her  ladyship  is  a  little  stronger,  I  will  goto  her  and 
obtain  her  permission  to  speak.  Keep  what  I  have  said  a 
secret  from  Sir  Rupert,  and  wait  until  then." 

She  rose  up  to  go,  so  haggard  and  deploring-looking,  that 
neither  strove  to  detain  her.  The  young  man  stared  blankly 
after  her  as  she  left  the  room. 

«  At  last  I  "  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  bxeath,  **  aC  lait  I 
Aallksowl" 


SIR  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


^3 


There  was  a  pause ;  then  May  spoke  in  a  fluttering  littls 
/oice. 

•'  How  very  strange  that  Mrs.  Weymore  should  know,  of 
all  persons  in  the  world." 

*'  Who  is  Mrs.  Weymore  ?  How  long  has  she  been  here? 
Tell  me  all  you  know  of  her,  Miss  Everard." 

"And  that  'all'  will  bt  almost  nothing.  She  came 
down  from  London  as  a  nursery-goveriiess  to  Rupert  and 
me,  a  week  or  two  after  my  arrival  here,  selected  by  the 
rector  of  St.  Gosport.  She  was  then  what  you  see  her  now, 
a  pale,  subdued  creature  in  widow's  weeds,  with  the  look 
of  one  who  had  seen  trouble.  I  have  known  her  so  long, 
and  always  as  such  a  white,  still  shadow,  I  suppose  that  is 
why  it  seems  so  odd." 

Mrs.  Weymore  kept  altogether  out  of  Mr.  Legard's  way 
for  the  next  week  or  two.  She  avoided  May  also,  as  much 
as  possible,  and  shrunk  so  palpably  from  any  allusion  to  the 
past  scene,  that  May  good  naturedly  bided  her  time  in  si- 
lence, though  almost  as  impatie:it  as  Mr.  Legard  himself. 

And  whilst  they  waited  ;he  bridal  eve  came  round,  and 
Lady  Thetford  was  much  better,  not  able  to  quit  her  room, 
but  strong  enough  to  lie  on  a  sofa  and  talk  to  her  son  and 
Col.  Jocyln,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek  and  sparkle  in  her 
eye — all  unusual  there. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  the  village  church ; 
and  there  was  to  follow  a  grand  ceremonial  of  a  wedding- 
breakfast  ;  and  then  the  happy  pair  were  to  start  at  once  on 
their  bridal-tour. 

•*And  I  hope  to  see  ray  boy  return,"  Lady  Thetford 
eaid,  kissing  him  fondly.  <<  I  can  hardly  ask  for  more  than 
that." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  eveiinul  wedding-eve,  the 
ex-governess  sought  out  Guy  Legardj  for  the  first  time  of 
her  own  accord.    She  found  him  in  the  young  baronet's 


SIX  NOSL'S  HBUi, 


u 


gtadto^  with  May,  putting  the  vanishing  touches  to  that 
young  kdy's  portrait  He  started  up  at  sight  of  his  visi> 
tor,  vividly  interested.  Mrs.  Weymore  was  paler  even  than 
tsual,  but  with  a  look  of  deep,  quiet  determination  on  her 
face  no  one  had  ever  seen  there  before. 

"  You  have  come  to  keep  your  promise,"  the  young  man 
sried — "  to  tell  me  who  I  am  ?  " 

*'  I  have  come  to  keep  my  promise,"  JMrs.  Weymore  an- 
swered ;  **  but  I  must  speak  to  my  lady  first.  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  that,  before  you  sleep  to-night,  you  shall  know." 

She  left  the  studio,  and  the  two  sat  there,  breathless,  ex- 
pectant. Sir  Rupert  was  dining  at  Jocyln  Hall,  Lady 
Thetford  was  alone  in  high  spirits,  and  Mrs.  Weymore  Was 
admitted  at  once. 

**  I  wonder  how  long  you  must  wait?"  said  May  Everard. 

'*  Heav^.^n  knows  I  Not  long,  I  hope,  or  I  shall  go  mad 
with  impatience." 

An  hour  passed — two — three,  and  still  Mrs.  Weymore 
was  closeted  with  my  lady,  and  still  the  pair  in  the  studio 
waited. 


'  I 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

MRS.   WEYMORE's  STORT. 

Lady  Thetford  sat  up  among  her  pillows  and  looked  at 
her  hired  dependent  with  wide  open  eyes  of  astonishment 
The  pale,  timid  face  of  Mrs.  Weymore  wore  a  look  alto- 
gether new. 

**  Listen  to  your  story  t  My  dear  Mrs.  We)rmore,  what 
possible  interest  can  your  story  have  for  me  ?  " 

"More  than  you  think,  my  lady.  You  are  so  much 
stronger  to-day  than  usual,  and  Sir  Rupert's  marriage  is  so 
veiy  near  that  I  must  speak  now  or  never." 


J^IR  NOEL'S  HE ttt. 


9$ 


It 

L 

at 


"  Sir  Rupert  1  my  lady  gasped  "What  has  your  sloiy 
to  do  with  Sir  Rupert  ?  " 

"You  will  hear,"  Mrs.  Wej/Tnore  said,  very  sadly. 
"  Heaven  knows  I  should  liave  told  you  long  ago ;  but  it  ia 
a  story  few  would  care  to  tell.  A  cruel  and  shameful  story 
of  wrong  and  misery ;  for,  my  lady,  I  have  been  cruelly 
wronged  by  one  who  was  once  very  near  to  you." 

Lady  Thetford  turned  ashen  white. 

"  Very  near  to  me  1    Do  you  mean " 

<'  My  lady,  listen,  and  you  shall  hear.  All  those  years 
that  I  have  been  with  you,  I  have  not  been  what  I  seemed. 
My  name  is  not  Weymore.  My  name  is  Thetford — as 
yours  is." 

An  awful  terror  had  settled  down  on  my  lady's  face. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  sad,  set  face  before  her,  with  a  wild,  expectant 
stare. 

**  I  was  a  widow  when  I  came  to  you,"  Mis.  Weymore 
went  on  to  say,  *<but  long  before  I  had  known  that  worst 
widowhood,  desertion.  I  ran  away  from  my  happy  home, 
from  the  kindest  father  and  mother  that  ever  lived  ;  I  ran 
away  and  was  married  and  deserted  before  I  was  eighteen 
years  old. 

"  He  came  to  our  village,  a  remote  place,  my  lady,  with 
a  local  celebrity  for  its  trout  streams,  and  for  nothing  else. 
He  came,  the  man  whom  I  married,  on  a  visit  to  the  great 
house  of  the  place.  We  had  not  the  remotest  connection 
with  the  house,  or  I  xsa^X  have  known  his  real  name. 
When  I  did  know  him  it  was  as  Mr.  Noel — he  told  me  him* 
lelf,  and  I  never  thought  of  doubting  it.  I  was  as  simple 
and  confidina  aa  it  is  possible  for  the  simplest  village  girl  to 
be,  and  all  tne  handsome  stranger  told  me  was  gospel 
truth;  and  my  life  only  began,  I  thought,  from  the  boor  i 
•awlUmfinb 


0 


Sm  NOEL  'S  ffEIR, 


i! 


"  I  met  him  at  the  trout  streams  fishing,  and  alone.  I 
had  come  to  while  the  long,  lazy  hours  under  the  treea 
He  spoke  to  me — the  handsome  stranger,  whom  I  had  seen 
riding  through  the  village  beside  the  squire,  like  a  young 
prince ;  and  I  was  only  too  pleased  and  flattered  by  his 
notice.  It  is  many  years  ago,  my  lady,  and  Mr.  Noel  took 
a  fancy  to  my  pink-and-white  face  and  fair  curls,  as  fine 
gentlemen  will.  It  was  only  fancy — never,  at  its  best, 
love;  or  he  would  not  have  deserted  me  pitilessly  as  he  did. 
I  know  it  now  j  but  then  I  took  the  tinsel  for  pure  gold, 
and  would  as  soon  have  doubted  the  Scripture  as  his 
lightest  word. 

**  My  lady,  it  is  a  very  old  story,  and  very  often  told. 
We  met  by  stealth  and  in  secret  j  and  weeks  passed  and  I 
never  learned  he  was  other  than  what  I  knew  him.  I  loved 
with  my  whole  foolish,  trusting  heart,  strongly  and  self- 
ishly ;  and  I  was  really  to  give  up  home,  and  friends  and 
parents — all  the  world  for  him.  All  the  world,  but  not 
my  good  name,  and  he  knew  that ;  and,  my  lady,  we  were 
married — really  and  truly  and  honestly  married,  in  a  little 
church  in  Berkshire,  in  Windsor ;  and  the  marriage  is  re- 
corded in  the  register  of  the  church,  and  I  have  the  mar- 
riage certificate  here  in  my  possession." 

Mrs.  Weymore  touched  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  with  earnest,  truthful  eyes  at  Lady  Thetford.  But 
Lady  Thetford's  face  was  averted  and  not  to  be  seen. 

"  His  fancy  for  me  was  as  fleeting  as  all  his  fancies ;  but 
it  was  strong  enough  and  reckless  enough  whilst  it  lasted  to 
make  him  forget  all  consequences.  For  it  was  surely  a 
reckless  act  for  a  gentleman,  such  as  he  was,  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  a  village  schoolmaster. 

"  There  was  but  one  witness  to  our  marriage— my  hus- 
band's servant — George  Vyking.  I  never  liked  the  man; 
it  was  oaftyi  and  cunning,  and  treacherous,  and  ready  £of 


4 


SfJi  JVOEL'S  If£/X, 


9y 


^ 


•ny  deed  of  evil ;  but  he  was  in  his  master's  confidence, 
and  took  a  house  for  us  at  Windsor  and  lived  with  us«  and 
kept  his  master's  secrets  well." 

Mrs.  Weymore  ptiused,  her  hands  fluttering  in  painful 
unrest.  The  averted  face  of  Lady  Thetford  never  turned, 
but  a  smothered  voice  bade  her  go  on. 

"  A  year  passed,  my  laa^,  and  I  still  lived  in  the  house 
at  Windsor,  but  quite  alone  now.  My  punishment  had  be- 
gun very  eirlyj  two  or  three  months  sufficed  to  weary  my 
husband  o  his  childish  village  girl,  and  make  him  thor- 
oughly repCi  t  his  folly.  I  saw  it  from  the  first — he  never 
tride  to  hide  it  from  me ;  his  absence  grew  longer  and 
longer,  more  and  more  frequent,  until  at  last  he  ceased 
coming  altogether.  Vyking,  the  valet,  came  and  went; 
and  Vyking  told  me  the  truth — the  hard,  cruel,  bitter  truth, 
that  I  was  never  to  see  my  husband  more. 

" '  It  was  the  maddest  act  of  a  mad  young  man's  life,* 
Vyking  saiJ  to  me,  coolly,  *  and  he's  repented  of  it,  as  I 
knew  he  would  repent.  You'll  never  see  him  again,  mis- 
tress, and  you  needn't  search  for  him,  either.  When  yoo 
find  last  winter's  snow,  last  autum's  partridges,  then  you 
may  hope  to  find  him.' 

"  *  But  I  am  his  wife,*  I  said ;  '  nothing  can  undo  that 
—his  lawful,  wedded  wife.' 

*' « Yes,'  said  Vyking,  *  his  wife  fast  enough ;  but  there's 
the  law  of  divorce,  and  there's  no  witness  but  roe  alive, 
and  you  can  do  your  best ;  and  the  best  you  can  do  is  to 
takb  it  easy  and  submit.  He'll  provide  for  you  handsomely; 
and  when  he  gets  the  divorce,  if  you  like,  I'll  marry  you 
myself.' 

"  I  had  grown  to  expect  some  such  revelation,  I  had  been 
neglected  so  long.  My  lady,  I  don't  speak  of  my  feelings, 
my  anguish  and  shame,  and  remorse  and  despair — I  only 
WU  you  here  simple  facts.    But  in  the  days  and 


98 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


which  foIlo\/ed,  I  suffered  as  I  never  can  suffer  again  in  tiito 
world. 

"  I  was  held  little  better  than  a  prisoner  in  the  house  af 
Windsor  after  that ;  and  I  think  Vyking  never  gave  up  the 
hope  that  I  would  one  day  consent  to  marry  him.  More 
than  once  I  tried  to  run  away,  to  get  on  the  track  of  my 
betrayer,  but  always  to  be  met  and  foiled.  I  have  gone 
down  on  my  knees  to  that  man  Vyking,  but  I  might  ^  well 
have  knelt  to  a  statue  of  stone. 

"'I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,' he  said, 'we'll  goto 
London.  People  are  beginning  to  look  and  talk  about 
here ;  there  they  know  how  to  mind  their  own  business.' 

"  I  consented  readily  enough.  My  one  hope  now  was  to 
find  the  man  who  had  wronged  me,  and  in  London  I 
thought  I  stood  a  better  chance  that  at  Windsor.  We 
started,  Vyking  and  I  j  but  driving  to  the  station  we  met 
with  an  accident,  our  horse  ran  aw.iy  and  I  was  thrown 
out ;  after  that  I  hardly  remetnber  anything  for  a  long 
time. 

"  Weeks  passed  before  I  recovered.  Then  I  was  told  ny 
baby  had  been  born  and  died.  I  listened  in  a  sort  of  dull 
apathy ;  I  had  suffered  so  much  that  the  sense  of  suffering 
was  dulled  and  blunted.  I  knew  Vyking  well  enough  not 
to  trust  him  or  believe  him ;  but  I  was  powerlehs  to  act, 
and  could  only  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  and  pray  to  die. 

"But  I  grew  strong,  and  Vyking  took  me  to  London, 
and  left  me  in  respectably- furnished  lodgings.  I  might 
have  escaped  easily  enough  here,  but  the  energy  even  to 
wish  for  freedom  was  gone;  I  sat  all  day  long  in  a  state  of 
roiserabiie,  listless  languor,  heart-weary,  heart-sick,  worn 
out. 

**  One  day  Vyking  came  to  ray  rooms  in  a  furious  state 
of  passion.  He  and  his  master  had  quarreled.  I  never 
kaeir  about  wbatj  and  Vyking  bad  been  ignomiaiouily 


SIR  NOEL'S  HETR. 


99 


dismissed.    The  valet  tore  up  and  down  my-  ):iux,  'arlor  in 
a  towering  passion. 

"  '  I'll  make  Sir  Noel  pay  for  it,  :  r  my  namf;*s  not  Vyk- 
ing,'  he  cried.  '  He  thinks  because  he's  marricuan  heiress 
he  can  defy  me  now.  But  there's  a  law  in  this  laiid  ".  pun- 
ish bigamy ;  and  I'll  have  him  up  for  bigamy  the  moment 
he's  back  from  his  wedding  tour.' 

'•I  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  very  quietly,  'Sir 
Noel,'  I  said.     '  Do  you  mean  my  husband  ? ' 

** '  I  mean  Miss  Vandeleur's  husband  now/  said  Vyking. 
*  You'll  never  see  him  again,  my  p'»*.  Yes,  he's  Sir  Noel 
Thetford,  of  Thetford  Towers,  Devonshire ;  and  you  can 
go  and  call  on  his  pretty  new  wife  as  soon  as  she  comes 
home.' 

*'  I  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window  without 
a  word.    Vyking  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"  '  Oh  !  we've  got  over  it,  have  we;  and  we're  going  to 
take  it  easy  and  not  make  a  scene  ?  Now  that's  what  I  call 
sensible.  And  you'll  come  forward  and  swear  Sir  Noel 
guilty  of  bigamy?" 

*•  *  No,'  I  said,  *  I  never  will.*  '' 

"  *  You  won't — and  why  not?  * 

**  *  Never  mind  why.     I  don't  think  you  would  und^ 
stand  if  I  told  you — only  1  won't' 

•* '  Couldn't  you  be  coaxed  ? ' 

"'No.' 

"'Don't  be  too  sure.  Perhaps  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thing that  might  move  you,  quiet  as  you  are.  What  if  1  told 
you  your  baby  did  not  die  that  time,  but  was  alive  and 
well?' 

"I  knew  a  scene  was  worse  than  useless  with  this  man, 
tears  and  entreaties  thrown  away.  I  heard  his  last  words 
and  started  to  my  feet  with  outstretched  bands. 


too 


SIR  NOEL*S  HETB^ 


** '  Vyking,  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  hare  pity  on  a  do* 
olate  woman,  and  tell  me  the  truth.' 

"  <  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  Your  boy  is  alive  and 
well,  and  I've  christened  him  Guy — Guy  Vyking.  Don't 
you  be  scared — he's  all  safe ;  and  the  day  you  appear  in 
court  against  Sir  Noel,  that  day  he  shall  be  restored  to  you. 
Now  don't  you  go  and  get  excited,  think  it  over,  and  let 
me  know  your  decision  when  I  come  back.' 

"  He  left  the  room  before  I  could  answer,  and  I  never 
saw  Vyking  again.  The  next  day,  reading  the  rooming 
paper,  I  saw  the  arrest  of  a  pair  of  house-brealcers,  and  the 
name  of  the  chief  was  George  Vyking,  late  valet  to  Sir 
Noel  brd.    I  tried  to  get  to  see  him  in  prison,  but 

failed  .i  trial  came  on,  his  sentence  was  transportation 
for  ten  years ;  and  Vyking  left  England,  carrying  my  se- 
cret with  iiira. 

•*  I  had  something  le<>  to  live  for  now — ^the  thought  of 
my  child.  But  where  v as  I  to  find  him,  where  to  look? 
I,  who  had  not  a  penziy  in  the  wide  world.  If  I  had  had 
the  means,  I  would  na7e  come  to  Devonshire  to  seek  out 
the  man  who  had  '*o  baSely  wronged  me ;  but  as  I  was,  I 
could  as  soon  hav«  gone  to  the  antipodes.  Oh !  it  was  a 
bitter,  bitter  tiirv,  that  long,  hard  struggle  with  starva- 
tion— a  time  it  chills  my  blood  even  now  to  look  back 
npon. 

**  I  was  still  Jr.  London,  battling  with  grim  poverty,  when, 
six  months  later,  I  read  in  the  Times  the  awfully  sudden 
death  of  Sir  No*l  Thetford,  Baronet. 

"My  lady,  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  eft'ect  of  that  blow 
—I  dare  /dot  to  you,  as  deeply  wronged  as  myself.  You 
were  wi*h  him  in  his  dying  moments,  and  surely  he  told 
you  the  .ruth  then;  surely  he  acknowledged  the  great 
wrong  he  had  done  you  ?  " 

Mis.  Weymore  paused,  and  Lady  Thetford  turned  her 


S/X  JWEL'S  ff£IX, 


lOt 


&ce,  her  ghastly,  white  face,  for  the  fi^at  time,  to  an- 
swer. 

''He  did— he  told  me  all;  I  know  your  story  to  be 
true." 

"  Thank  God  t  Ch,  thank  God !  And  he  acknowledged 
his  first  marriage  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  the  wrong  he  did  you  was  venial  to  that  which 
he  did  me — I,  who  never  was  his  wife,  neve:  for  one  poor 
moment  had  a  right  to  his  name." 

Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  her  knees  by  the  couch, 
and  passionately  kissed  the  lady's  hand. 

"  My  lady  !  my  lady  1  And  you  will  forgive  me  for 
coming  here  ?  I  did  not  know,  when  I  answered  Mr. 
Knight's  advertisement,  where  I  was  coming ;  and  when  I 
did,  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  looking  on  hisson. 
Oh,  my  lady !  you  will  forgive  me,  and  bear  witness  to  the 
truth  of  my  story." 

"  I  will ;  I  always  meant  to  before  I  died.  And  that 
young  man— that  Guy  Legard — ^you  know  he  is  your 
son?" 

"I  knew  it  from  the  first.  My  lady,  you  will  let  me  tell 
him  at  once,  will  you  not  ?  And  Sir  Rupert  ?  Oh,  my 
lady !  he  ought  to  know." 

Lady  Thetford  covered  her  face  with  a  groan. 

**  I  promised  his  father  on  his  death-bed  to  tell  him  long 
ago,  to  seek  for  his  rightful  heir — and  see  how  I  have  kept 
my  word.  But  T  could  not — I  could  not  t  It  was  not  in 
human  nature — ^not  in  such  a  nature  as  mine,  wronged  as  I 
have  been." 

**  But  now — oh,  my  dear  lady  I  now  you  will  ?  " 

"Yes,  now,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I  may  surely 
speak.  I  dare  not  die  with  my  promise  unkept.  Thisvcgr 
night,"  I-ady  Thetford  cried;  sitting  up,  fli'shed  andex> 
cited.  **^  boy  sbidl  know  all— he  shall  not  many  ia 


t02 


SIR  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


ignorance  of  whom  he  really  is.  Aileen  has  the  fortune  of 
a  princess ;  and  Aileen  will  not  love  him  less  for  the  title 
he  must  lose.  When  he  comes  home,  Mrs.  Weymore,  send 
him  to  me,  and  send  your  son  with  him,  and  I  will  teU 
them  alL" 


CHAP^7,R  xin. 

«•'  THERE  IS  MAl^Y  A  SUP." 

A  ROOM  that  was  like  a  picture — a  carpet  of  rose-buds 
gleaming  through  rich  greeri  moss,  lounges  piled  with 
downy-silk  pillows,  a  bed  curtained  in  foamy  lace,  a  pretty 
room — Aileen  Jocyln's  chambre-a-coucher,  and  looking  like 
a  picture  herself,  in  a  flowing  morning-robe,  the  rich,  dark 
hair  falling  heavy  and  unbound  to  her  waist,  Aileen  Jocyln 
lay  among  piles  of  scarlet  cushions,  like  some  young  Eastern 
Sullana. 

Lay  and  music  with,  oh  !  such  an  infinitely  happy  smile 
upon  her  exquisite  face ;  mused,  as  happy  youth,  loving 
and  beloved,  upon  its  bridal-eve  doth  muse.  Nay,  on  her 
bridal-day,  for  the  dainty  little  French  clock  on  the  bracket 
was  pointing  its  golden  hands  to  three. 

The  house  was  very  still ;  all  had  retired  late,  busy  with 
preparations  for  the  morrow,  and  Miss  Jocyln  had  but  just 
dismissed  her  maid.  Every  one,  probably,  but  herself,  was 
asleep ;  and  she,  in  her  unutterable  bliss,  was  too  happy  for 
slumber.  She  arose  presently,  walked  to  the  .window  and 
looked  out.  The  late  setting  moon  still  swung  in  the  sky ; 
the  stars  still  spangled  the  cloudless  blue,  and  shone  serene 
on  the  purple  bosom  of  the  far-spreading  sea  j  but  in  the 
east  the  first  pale  glimmer  of  the  new  day  shone — her 
happy  wedding  day.  The  girl  slid  down  on  her  knees,  her 
bands  clasped,  her  radiant  iace.  |;lorified  with  love  and 


SIX  NOEL 'S  HEIR, 


lOJ 


0lls8,  turned  ecstatically,  as  some  faithful  follower  of  tb« 
prophet  might,  to  that  rising  glory  of  the  east. 

"Oh!  "  Aileen  thouj^ht,  gazing  around  over  the  dark, 
deep  sea,  the  star-gemmed  sky,  and  the  green  radiance  and 
sweetness  of  the  earth,  <'  what  a  beautiful,  blissful  v  cM  it 
is,  and  I  the  happiest  creature  in  it !  " 

Kneeling  there,  with  her  face  still  turned  to  that  ^  in.in- 
ous  East,  the  blissful  bride  fell  asleep;  slept,  and  dreanr:;:d 
dreams  as  joy^'ul  as  her  waking  thoughts,  and  no  shadow  of 
that  sweepiiig  cloud  that  was  to  blacken  all  her  world  so  soon 
fell    pon  her. 

Hours  passed,  and  still  Aileeu  slept.  Then  came  an  im* 
perative  knock  at  her  door — again  and  again,  louder  each 
time;  and  then  Aileen  started  up,  fully  awake.  Her  room 
was  flooded  with  sunshine,  and  countless  birds  sang  their 
glorias  in  the  swaying  green  gloom  of  the  branches,  and 
the  ceaseless  sea  was  all  a~g litter  with  sparkling  sun-light. 

"  Come  in,"  Miss  Jocyln  said.  It  was  her  maid,  she 
thought — and  she  walked  over  to  an  arm-chair  and  com- 
posedly sat  down. 

The  door  opened,  and  Col.  Jocyln,  not  Fanchon,  ap- 
peared, an  open  note  in  his  hand,  his  face  full  of  trouble. 

"Papa  1  "  Aileen  cried,  starting  up  in  alarm. 

"Bad  news,  my  daughter — very  bad!  very  sorrowful  I 
Read  that." 

The  note  was  very  brief,  in  a  spidery,  female  hand., 

««Dear  Col.  Jocyln;— We  ar^  in  the  greatest  trouble.  Pbor 
Lady  Thetford  died  with  awful  suddenness  this  morning  in  one  of 
those  dreadful  spasms.  We  are  all  nearly  distracted.  Rupert  bears  it 
better  than  any  of  us.     Pray  come  over  as  soon  as  you  can. 

May.  Evep_ard.'* 

Aileen  Jocyln  sunk  back  in  her  seat,  pale  and  trembling. 

"Dead  1    Ob,  papa  1  papa  1  " 

*'  It  is  very  sad,  my  dear,  and  verj  shocking  and  terribly 


104 


S/Ji  NOEVS  HEIR. 


nnfbrtaoate  that  it  should  have  occuned  just  at  this  time. 
A  postponed  wedding  is  ever  ominous  of  evil." 

«•  Oh  !  pray,  papa,  don't  think  of  that  I  Don't  think  oi 
me !  Poor  Lady  Thetford  I  Poor  Rupert !  You  will  go 
over  at  once,  papa,  will  you  not  ?  " 

*'  Certainly,  my  dear.  And  I  will  tell  the  servants,  so 
that  when  our  guests  arrive  you  may  not  be  disturbed. 
Since  it  was  to  be,"  muttered  the  Indian  officer  under  his 
moustache.  "  I  would  give  half  my  fortune  that  it  had 
been  one  day  later.  A  postponed  marriage  is  the  most 
ominous  thing  under  the  sun." 

He  left  the  room,  and  Aileen  sat  with  her  hands  clasped, 
and  an  unutterable  awe  overpowering  every  other  feeling. 
She  forgot  her  own  disappointment  in  the  awful  mystery 
of  sudden  death.  Her  share  of  the  trial  was  light — a  year 
of  waiting,  more  or  less ;  what  did  it  matter,  since  Rupert 
loved  her  unchangeably?  but,  poor  Lady  Aileen,  remem- 
bering how  much  the  dead  woman  had  loved  her,  and  how 
fondly  she  had  welcomed  her  as  a  daughter,  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  wept  as  she  might  have  wept  for 
her  own  mother. 

**  I  never  knew  a  mother's  love  or  care,"  Aileen  thought ; 
"  and  I  was  doubly  happy  in  knowing  I  was  to  have  one 
at  last.    And  now — and  now " 

It  was  a  drearily  long  morning  to  the  poor  bride  elcct^ 
sitting  alone  in  her  chamber.  She  heard  the  roll  of  car- 
riages up  the  drive,  the  pause  that  ensued,  and  then  thelt 
departure.  She  wondered  he  v  he  bore  it  best  of  all.  May 
had  said;  but,  then,  he  was  ever  still  and  strong  and  self- 
restrained.  She  knew  how  dear  that  poor,  ailing  mother 
had  ever  been  to  him,  and  she  knew  how  bitterly  he  would 
feel  her  loss. 

"They  talk  of  presentiments,"  mused  Miss  Jocyln, 
wnlking  wearily  to  and  fro;  "and  see  how  happy  and 


STii  'AQ^L  )S  dlliU^ 


105 


hopeftil  I  vna  this  morning,  whilsc  she  lay  dead  and  he 
mourned.    If  I  only  dared  go  to  him — my  own  Rupert  I " 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  Col.  Jocyln  returned. 
He  strode  straight  to  his  daughter's  presence,  wearing  a 
pale,  fagged  face. 

'*  Well,  papa  ?  "  she  asked,  faintly.  , 

"  My  pale  Aileen  I  "  he  said,  kissing  her  fondly  j  "my 
poor,  patient  girl!  I  am  sorry  you  must  undergo  this 
trial,  and,"  knitting  his  brows,  "such  talk  as  it  will 
make." 

*'  Don't  think  of  me,  papa — my  share  is  surely  the  light- 
est.    But  Rupert— "  wistfully  faltering. 

*'  There's  something  odd  about  Rupert;  he  was  very  fond 
of  his  mother,  and  he  takes  this  a  great  deal  too  quietly. 
He  looks  like  a  man  slowly  turning  to  stone,  with  a  face 
white  and  stern  ;  and  he  never  asked  for  you.  He  sat  there 
with  folded  arms  and  that  petrified  faje,  gazing  on  his 
dud,  until  it  chilled  my  blood  to  look  at  him.  There's 
something  odd  and  unnatural  in  this  frozen  calm.  And, 
oh  I  by-the-bye !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  strangest  thing- 
May  Everard  it  was  told  me ',  that  painter  fellow — what's 
his  name — " 

"Legard,  papa?" 

•'  Yes,  Legard.  He  turns  out  to  be  the  son  ivf rs. Wey- 
more;  they  discovered  it  last  night.  He  was  there  in  the 
room,  with  ''he  most  dazed  and  m)rstified  and  altogether 
bewildered  -expression  of  countenance  I  ever  saw  a  man 
wear,  and  May  and  Mrs.  Weymore  sat  crying  incessantly, 
I  couldn't  see  what  occasion  there  was  for  the  governess 
and  the  painter  there  in  that  room  of  death,  and  I  said  so 
to  Miss  Everard.  There's  something  rayiterious  in  the  mat- 
ter, for  her  face  flushed  and  si.e  stammered  something 
about  startling  family  secrets  that  had  come  to  light,  and 
the  over-excitement  of  which  had  hastened  Lady  Thet- 


io6 


SIR  NOEL'S  HE TK, 


ford's  end.  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things,  and  Tm  ftlto» 
gether  in  the  dark.  That  painter  resembles  the  Thetford's 
a  great  deal  too  closely  for  the  mere  work  of  chance ;  and 
yet,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  his  mother,  I  don't  see  hovir 
there  can  be  anything  in  that.  It's  odd — confoundedly 
odd  !  •• 

Col.  Jocyln  rumbled  on  as  he  walked  the  floor,  his  brows 
knitted  into  a  swarthy  frown.  His  daughter  sat  and  eyed 
him  wistfully. 

'<Did  no  one  ask  for  me,  papa?  Am  I  not  to  go 
over?  " 

*'  Sir  Rupert  didn't  ask  for  you  !  May  Everard  did,  and 
I  promised  to  fetch  you  to-morrow.  Aiieen,  things  at 
Thetford  Towers  have  a  suspicious  look  to-day;  I  can't 
see  the  light  yet,  but  I  suspect  something  wrong.  It  may 
be  the  very  best  thing  that  could  possibly  happen,  this 
postponed  marriage.  I  shall  make  Sir  Rupert  clear  matv 
ters  up  completely  before  my  daughter  becomes  his 
wife." 

Col.  Jocyln,  according  to  promise,  took  his  daughter  to 
Thetford  Towers  next  morning.  With  bated  breath  and 
beating  heart  and  noiseless  tread,  Aiieen  Jocyln  entered 
the  house  of  mourning,  which  yesterday  she  had  thought 
to  enter  a  bride.  Dark  and  still,  and  desolate  it  lay,  the 
morning  light  shut  out,  unbroken  silence  everywhere. 

"  And  this  is  the  end  of  earth,  its  glory  and  its  bliss," 
Aiieen  thought  as  she  followed  her  father  slowly  up- 
stairs, "  the  solemn  wonder  of  the  winding-sheet  and  the 
grave." 

There  were  tvro  watchers  in  the  dark  room  when  they 
entered — May  Everard,  pale  and  quiet,  and  the  young 
artist,  Guy  Legard.  Even  in  that  moment,  Col.  Jocyln 
could  not  repress  a  supercilious  stare  of  wonder  to  behold 
the  housekeeper's  son  in  the  death-chamber  of  Lady  The^ 


SIX  NOEL'S  HETR. 


107 


ford.  And  yet  it  seemed  strangely  his  place,  for  it  might 
have  been  one  of  those  lusty  0I4  Thetfords,  framed  and 
glazed  up-stairr,  stepped  out  of  the  canvas  and  dressed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  day. 

"Very  bad  tastes  all  the  same,"  the  proud  old  colonel 
thought,  with  a  frown :  **  very  bad  taste  on  the  part  of 
Sir  Rupert.  I  shall  speak  to  him  on  the  subject  pres- 
ently." 

He  stood  in  silence  beside  his  daughter,  looking  down 
at  the  marble  face.  May,  shivering  drearily  in  a  large 
shawl,  and  looking  like  a  wan  little  spirit,  was  speaking  in 
whispers  to  Aileen. 

*•  We  persuaded  Rupert — Mr.  Legard  and  I — to  go  and 
lie  down  ;  he  has  neither  eaten  nor  slept  since  his  mother 
died.     Oh,  Aileen  !  I  am  so  sorry  for  you !  " 

**  Hush !  "  raising  one  tremulous  hand  and  turning  away ; 
"she  was  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own  mother  could  have 
been  !     Don't  think  of  me." 

*♦  Shall  we  not  see  Sir  Rupert  ?  "  the  colonel  asked.  "  I 
should  like  to,  particularly." 

"  I  think  not — unless  you  remain  for  some  hours.  He  13 
completely  worn  out,  poor  fellow  !  " 

"How  comes  that  young  man  here.  Miss  Everard?  " 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Legard,  who  had  with- 
drawn to  a  remote  corner.  *'  He  may  be  a  very  especial 
friend  of  Sir  Rupert's — but  don't  you  think  he  presumes 
on  that  friendship?  " 

Miss  Evertrd's  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"  No,  sir !  I  think  nothing  of  the  sort !  Mr.  Legard  has 
a  perfect  right  to  be  in  this  room,  or  any  other  room  at 
Thetford  Towers.  It  is  by  Rupert's  particular  request  he 
remains  I " 

The  colonel  frowned  again,  and  turned  his  back  upos 
the  speaker. 


toS 


S/Ji  NOEL 'S  HEtn. 


**  Aileen,"  he  said,  haughtily,  "as  Sit  Rupert  is  not 
visible,  nor  likely  to  be  for  some  time,  perhaps  you  had 
better  not  linger.  To-morrow,  after  the  funeral,  I  shall 
speak  to  him  very  seriously." 

Miss  Jocyln  arose.  She  would  rather  have  lingered,  but 
she  saw  her  father's  annoyed  face  and  obeyed  him  imme- 
diately. She  bent  and  kissed  the  cold,  white  face,  awful 
with  the  dread  majesty  of  death. 

**  For  the  last  time,  my  friend,  my  mother,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  until  we  meet  in  heaven." 

She  drew  her  veil  over  her  face  to  hide  her  falling  tears, 
and  silently  followed  the  stern  and  displeased  Indian  offi- 
cer down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house.  She  looked  back 
wistfully  once  at  the  gray,  old  ivy-grown  facade ;  but  who 
was  to  tell  her  of  the  weary,  weary  months  and  years  that 
would  pass  before  she  crossed  that  stately  threshold  again  ? 

It  was  a  very  grand  and  imposing  ceremonial,  that  burial 
of  Lady  Thetford  j  and  side  by  side  with  the  heir  walked 
the  unknown  painter,  Guy  Legard.  Col.  Jocyln  was  not  the 
only  friend  of  the  family  shocked  on  this  occasion.  What 
could  Sir  Rupert  mean?  And  what  did  Mr.  Legard 
mean  by  looking  ten  times  more  like  the  old  Thetford  race 
than  Sir  Noel's  own  son  and  heir  ? 

It  was  a  miserable  day,  this  day  of  the  funeral.  There 
was  a  sky  cf  lead  hanging  low  like  a  pall,  and  it  was  almost 
dark  in  the  rainy  afternoon  gloaming  when  Col.  Jocyln 
and  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  stood  alone  before  the  village 
church.  Lady  Thetford  slept  with  the  rest  of  the  name  in 
the  stony  vaults ;  the  fair-haired  artist  stood  in  the  porch, 
and  Sir  Rupert,  with  a  face  wan  and  stern,  and  spectral,  in 
the  dying  daylight,  stood  face  to  face  with  the  coloneL 

**  A  private  interview,"  the  colonel  was  repeating; 
**  most  certainly,  Sir  Rupert.  Will  you  come  with  me  to 
Jocyln  Hall  ?    My  daughter  will  wish  to  see  yoiL" 


sin  NOEL'S  HE  I  JR. 


109 


The  young  man  nodded,  went  back  a  moment  to  speak 
to  Legard,  and  then  followed  the  colonel  into  the  carriage. 
The  drive  was  a  very  silent  one — a  vague,  chilling  presenti- 
ment of  impending  evil  on  the  Indian  officer  as  he  uneasily 
watched  the  young  man  who  had  so  nearly  been  his  son. 

Aileen  Jocyln,  roaming  like  a  restlwis  ghost  through  the 
lonely,  lofty  rooms,  saw  them  alight,  and  came  out  to  the 
ball  t»  meet  her  betrothed.  She  held  out  both  hands  shyly, 
looking  up,  half  in  fear,  in  the  rigid,  death-white  face  of 
her  lover. 

"  Aileen  I  " 

He  took  the  hands  and  held  them  fast  a  moment ;  then 
dropped  them  and  turned  to  the  colonel 

«« Now,  Col.  Jocyln." 

The  colonel  led  the  way  into  the  library.  Sir  Rupert 
paused  a  moment  on  tne  threshold  to  answer  Aileen's  plead- 
ing glance. 

**  Only  for  a  few  moments,  Aileen,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
softening  with  infinite  love;  "  in  half  an  hour  my  fate  shall 
be  decided.  Let  that  fate  be  what  it  may,  I  shall  be  true 
to  you  while  life  lasts." 

With  these  enigmatical  words,  he  followed  the  colonel 
into  the  library,  and  the  polished  oaken  door  closed  between 
hiia  and  Aileen. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


BARTEIX, 


Half  an  hour  had  passed. 

Up  and  down  the  long  drawing-room  Aileen  wandered 
aimlessly,  oppressed  with  a  dread  of  she  knew  not  what,  a 
picicience  of  evil,  vague  as  it  wa^  terrible.    The  dark 


»io 


STR  JVOEL*S  ffS/X. 


gloom  of  the  rainy  evening  was  not  darker  than  thjit  ^teood* 

ing  shadow  in  her  deep,  dusky  eyes. 

In  the  library  Col.  Jocyln  stood  facing  his  son-in  law 
elect,  staring  like  a  man  bereft  of  his  senses.  The  melan" 
choly,  half  light  coming  through  the  oriel  window  by 
which  he  stood,  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  Rupert  Thetfoid^ 
white  and  cold,  and  set  as  marble. 

"My  God  1 "  the  Indian  officer  said,  with  wild  eyes  of 
terror  and  affright,  **  what  is  this  you  are  telling  me  ?  " 

"The  truth,  Col.  Jocyln — the  simple  truth.  Would  to 
Heaven  I  had  known  it  years  ago — this  shameful  story  of 
wrong-doiug  and  misery  !  " 

**  I  djn't  comprehend — I  can't  comprehend  this  impo»- 
sible  tiie.  Sir  Rupert." 

«*  That  is  a  misnomer  now,  Col.  ^ocyln.  I  am  no  longer 
Si/-  Rupert." 

•*Do  you  mean  to  say  you  credit  this  wild  story  of  a 
former  marriage  of  Sir  Noel's  ?  Do  you  really  believe  your 
late  governess  to  have  been  your  father's  wife?  " 

**  I  believe  it,  colonel.  I  have  facts  and  statements  and 
dying  words  to  prove  it.  On  my  father's  death-bed  he 
made  my  mother  swear  to  tell  the  truth ;  to  repair  the 
wrong  he  had  done  j  to  seek  out  his  son,  concealed  by.his 
valet,  Vyking,  and  restore  him  to  his  rights !  My  mother 
never,  kept  that  promise — the  cruel  wrong  done  to  herself 
was  too  bitter ;  and  at  my  birth  she  resolved  never  to  keep 
it.  I  should  not  atone  for  the  sin  of  my  father  ;  his  eldei 
son  should  never  deprive  h^r  child  of  his  birthright.  My 
poor  mother!  You  know  the  cause  of  that  mysterious 
trouble  which  fell  upon  her  at  my  father's  death,  and  which 
darkened  her  life  to  the  last.  Shame,  remorse,  anger — 
shame  for  herself — a  wife  only  in  name  ;  remorse  for  her 
broken  vow  to  the  dead,  and  anger  against  that  erring 
dead  nxan." 


'mamm 


SIR  NOEL* S  H Elk- 


Itl 


«But  you  told  me  she  had  hunted  him  up  and  provided 
for  him,  said  the  mystified  colonel. 

"  Yes ;  she  saw  an  advertisement  in  a  London  paper  call- 
hig  upon  Vyking  to  take  charge  of  the  boy  he  had  left 
twelve  years  before.  Now,  Yyking,  the  valet,  had  been 
transported  for  house-breaking  long  before  that,  and  my 
mother  answered  the  advertisement.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  the  child  was  the  child  Vyking  had  taken  charge 
of — Sir  Noel  Thetford's  rightful  heir.  My  mother  left 
him  with  the  painter,  Legard,  with  whom  he  had  grew  up, 
whose  name  he  took,  and  he  is  now  at  Thetford  Towers." 

"  I  thought  the  likeness  meant  something,"  muttercj  the 
colonel ;  his  paternity  is  plainly  enough  written  in  his  face. 
And  so,"  raising  his  voice,  **  Mrs.  Weymore  recognized  her 
son.  Really,  your  story  runs  like  a  melodrama,  where  the 
hero  turns  out  to  be  a  duke  and  his  mocner  knows  the  straw- 
berry  mark  on  his  arm.  Well,  sir,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  Sir 
Noel's  rightful  widow,  and  Guy  Legard  his  rightful  son  and 
heir — pray  what  are  you  ?  " 

The  colorless  face  of  the  young  man  turned  dark-red  for 
an  instant,  then  whiter  than  before. 

"  My  mother  was  as  truly  and  really  Sir  Noel's  wife  as 
women  can  be  the  wife  of  man  in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 
The  crime  was  his ;  the  shame  and  suffering  hers ;  the 
atonement  mine.  Sir  Noel's  elder  son  shall  be  Sir  Noel's 
heir — I  will  play  usurper  no  longer.  To-morrow  I  leave 
St.  Gosport;  the  day  after,  England — never,  perhaps,  to 
return." 

"  You  are  mad,"  Col.  Jocyln  said,  turning  very  pale  j 
**  you  do  not  mean  it." 

**  I  am  not  mad,  and  I  do  mean  it.  I  may  be  unfortu- 
nate ;  but,  I  pray  God,  never  a  villain  !  Right  is  right ; 
mjr  brother  Guy  is  the  rightful  heir— not  It" 


% 


ii2 


S/H  NOEL'S  HEik. 


**  And  Aileen  ?  "  Col.  Jocyln's  face  turned  dark  and  rigid 
as  iron  as  he  spoke  his  daughter's  name. 

Rupert  Thetford  turned  away  his  changing  face,  qoite 
ghastly  now. 

"  It  shall  be  as  she  says.  Aileen  is  tjo  jioble  aiiU  just 
herself  not  to  honor  me  for  doing  right." 

**  It  shall  be  as  I  say,"  returned  Col.  Jocyln,  with  a  voice 
that  rang  and  an  eye  that  flashed.  **  My  daughter  comes 
of  a  proud  and  stainless  race,  and  never  shall  she  mat?,  with 
one  less  stainless.  Hear  me  out,  young  man.  It  won't  do 
to  fire  up — plain  words  are  best  suited  to  a  plain  case.  All 
that  has  massed  betwixt  you  and  Miss  Jocyln  must  be  as  if 
it  had  never  been.  The  heir  of  Thetford  Toweis,  honor* 
ably  born,  I  consented  she  should  marry ;  but,  dearly  as  I 
love  her,  I  would  see  her  dead  at  my  feet  before  she  should 
mate  with  one  who  was  nameless  and  impoverished.  Yoa 
said  just  now  the  atonement  was  yours — you  said  right; 
go,  and  never  return." 

He  pointed  to  the  door ;  the  young  man,  stonily  stiU* 
took  his  hat. 

«*Win  you  not  permit  your  daughter,  CoL  Jocyln,  to 
speak  for  herself?  "  he  said,  at  the  door. 

"  No,  sir.  I  know  my  daughter — my  proud,  high-spir- 
ited Aileen — and  my  answer  is  hers.  I  wish  you  good- 
night." 

He  swung  round  abruptly,  turning  his  back  upon  his  vis- 
itor. Rupert  Thetford,  without  one  word,  turned  and 
walked  out  of  the  house. 

The  bewildering  rapidity  of  the  shocks  he  had  received 
had  stunned  him — he  could  not  feel  the  pain  now.  There 
was  a  dull  sense  of  aching  torture  over  him  from  head  to 
foot — but  the  acute  edge  was  dulled ;  he  walked  along 
through  the  black  night  like  a  mac  drugged  and  »t<iH>efiaA 


57jf  Nast*s  aenr. 


"3 


to 


He  was  only  conscious  intensely  of  one  thing — a  wish  to 
get  away,  never  to  set  foot  in  St.  <Josport  again. 

Like  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  he  reached  Thetford  Tow- 
ers, his  old  home,  every  tree  and  stone  of  which  was  dear 
to  him.  He  entered  at  once,  passed  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  found  Guy,  the  artist,  sitting  before  the  fire  star- 
ing blankly  into  the  coals,  and  May  Everard  roaming  rest- 
lessly up  and  down,  the  firelight  falling  dully  on  her  black 
robes  and  pale,  tear-stained  face.  Both  started  at  his  en- 
trance— all  wet,  and  wild,  and  haggard  ;  but  neither  spoke. 
There  was  that  in  his  face  which  froze  the  words  on  their 
lips. 

"  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,"  he  said,  abruptly,  lean- 
ing againsi  the  mantle,  and  looking  at  them  with  weird, 
spectral  eyes. 

May  uttered  a  faint  cry ;  Guy  faced  him  almost  fiercely. 

•'  Going  away  I  What  do  you  mean,  Sir  Rupert  ?  We 
are  going  away  together,  if  you  like." 

*'  No ;  I  go  alone.    You  remain  here ;  it  is  your  place 


%% 


now. 

<«  Never  1 "  cried  the  young  artist — *«  never !  I  will  go 
out  and  die  like  a  dog,  in  a  ditch,  before  I  rob  you  of  your 
birthright  1 " 

r  «« You  reverse  matters,"  said  Rupert  Thetford ;  **  it  is  I 
who  have  robbed  you,  unwittingly,  for  too  many  years.  I 
promised  my  mother  on  hei  death-bed,  as  she  promised  my 
father  on  his,  that  you  should  have  your  right,  and  I  will 
keep  that  promise.  Guy,  dear  old  fellow  !  don't  let  us 
quarrel,  now  that  we  are  brothers,  after  being  fnendp  so 
long.  Take  what  is  your  own  ;  the  world  is  all  before  me, 
and  surely  I  am  man  enough  to  win  my  own  way.  Not 
one  other  word  j  you  shall  not  come  with  me ;  you  might 
as  well  talk  to  these  dtone  walls  and  try  to  move  them  a&  to 
me.    To-morrow  I  go,  and  go  alone." 


lU 


SIP  JVOffZ  *S  JTBTR, 


**  A1(»0  i  "  It  was  May  who  breathleidy  repeated  lub 
word. 

"  Alone  I  AH  the  tfes  that  bound  me  here  are  broken  j 
I  go  alone  and  single-handed  to  fight'  the  battle  of  life. 
Guy,  I  have  spoken  to  the  rector  about  you — you  will  find 
him  your  friend  and  aider ;  and  May  is  to  make  her  home 
at  the  rectory.  And  now,'*  turning  suddenly  and  moving 
to  the  door,  '<  as  I  start  early  to>morrow,  I  believe  I'll  retire 
early.    Good-night.'* 

An  1  then  he  was  gone,  and  Guy  and  May  were  left  star- 
ing at  each  ether  with  blank  faces. 

Ths  storm  of  wind  and  rain  sobbed  itself  ot»t  before 
nxidn.ght,  and  in  the  bluest  of  skies,  heralded  by  banners 
of  rosy  clouds,  rose  up  the  sun  next  morning.  Before  that 
rising  sun  had  gilded  the  tops  of  the  tallest  oaks  in  the  park 
he,  who  had  so  lately  called  it  all  his  own,  had  opened  the 
heavy  oaken  door  and  passed  from  Thetford  Towers,  as 
home,  forever.  The  house  was  very  still — no  one  had 
risen  \  he  had  left  a  note  to  Guy,  with  a  few  brief,  warm 
words  of  farewell. 

«  Better  so,"  he  thought—*'  better  so  I  He  and  May 
will  be  happy  together,  for  I  know  he  loves  her  and  she 
him.  The  memory  of  my  Itave-taking  shall  never  come  to 
cloud  their  united  lives." 

One  last  backward  glance  at  the  eastern  windows  turning 
to  gold ;  at  the  sea  blushing  back  the  first  glance  of  the 
day-king ;  at  the  waving  trees  and  swelling  meadows,  and 
dien  he  had  passed  down  the  avenue,  out  through  the  mat* 
live  entrance-gates,  and  was  gons. 


I  • 


f 


sat  ItQEL*S  MSOL 


>1| 


CHAPTER  X7. 

ATTER  FIVE  YEABSt 


MboNUOHT  falling  like  a  silvery  veil  over  Venice— fi 
crystal  clear  crescent  in  a  purple  sky  shimmering  on  palact 
and  prison,  churches,  squares  and  canals,  on  the  gliding 
gondolas  and  the  flitting  forms  passing  like  noiseless  shad< 
ows  to  and  fro. 

A  young  lady  leaned  from  a  window  of  a  vast  Venetian 
b<^tel,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  silver-lighted  landscape, 
so  strange,  so  unreal,  so  dream-like  to  her  unaccustomed 
eyes.  A  young  lady,  stately  and  tall,  with  a  pale,  proud 
face,  and  a  statuesque  sort  of  beauty  that  was  perfect  in  its 
way.  She  was  dressed  in  trailing  robes  of  crape  and  bom- 
bazine, and  the  face,  turned  to  the  moonlight,  was  cold  and 
still  as  marble. 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  moonlit  canal,  down  which 
dark  gondolas  floated  to  the  music  of  the  gay  gondolier's 
iong ;  once,  as  an  English  voice  in  the  piazza  below  sung 
a  stave  of  a  jingling  barcarole— 

•■  Oh  i  gay  we  row  where  faTl  tides  flow ! 

And  bear  oar  bounding  pinnace ; 
And  leap  along  where  song  meets  son^ 

Across  the  waves  of  Venice." 

The  singer,  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  florid  face  and  yel> 
low  side- whiskers,  an  unmistakable  son  of  the  "  right  little, 
tight  little"  island,  paused  in  his  song,  as  another  man, 
stepping  through  an  open  window,  struck  him  an  airy, 
sledge-hammer  slap  on  the  bade 


Il6 


HR  NOEVS  HEIR, 


**  I  ought  «u  kaow  that  voice/'  said  the  last  comer. 

••Mortimer,  my  lad,  how  goes  it?" 

"  Stafford  !  *'  cried  the  singer,  seizing  the  outstretched 
hand  in  a  genuine  English  grip,  **  happy  to  meet  you,  old 
boy,  in  the  land  of  romance  I  La  Fabre  told  me  you  were 
coming,  but  who  would  look  for  you  so  soon  1  1  thought 
you  were  doing  Sorrento?" 

*♦  Got  tired  of  Sorrento,"  said  Stafford,  taking  his  arm 
for  a  walk  up  and  down  the  piazza ;  *•  there's  a  fever  there, 
too— quite  an  epidemic — malignant  typhus.  Discretion  is 
the  better  part  ot  valor  where  Sorrento  fevers  are  concerned. 
I  left." 

«•  When  did  you  reach  Venice? "  asked  Mortimer,  light- 
ing a  cigar. 

'*  An  hour  ago;  and  now  who's  h:re?  Any  one  I 
know  I  " 

**  Lots.  The  Cholmonadeys,  the  Lythons,  the  Howards, 
of  Leighwood ;  and,  by-the-bye,  they  have  with  them  the 
Marble  Bride." 

"The  wliich?"  asked  Mr.  Stafford. 

"  The  Marble  Bride,  the  Princess  Frostina ;  otherwise 
Mis'*  Aileen  Jocyln,  of  Jocyln  Hall  Devonshire.  You 
#knev;  the  old  colonel,  I  think ;  he  died  over  a  year  ago, 
you  remember." 

'•  Ah,  yes !  1  remember.  Is  she  here  with  the  Howards, 
and  as  handsome  as  ever,  no  doubt  ?  " 

**  Handsome,  to  my  mind,  with  an  uplifted  and  una{^ 
proachable  sort  of  beauty.  A  fel'ow  might  as  soon  love 
some  bright  particular  star,  etc. ,  as  the  fabulously  wealthy 
heiress  of  all  the  Jocylns.  She  has  no  end  of  suitors — all 
the  best  men  here  bow  at  the  shrine  of  the  ice-cold  Aileen, 
and  all  in  vain." 

"  You  among  the  rest,  my  friend  ?  "  with  a  light  laugh. 
'No,  by  Jovel"  cried  Mr.  Mortimer;  "that  sort  of 


« 


Sm  NO£L  'S  HElk. 


ttf 


tibifng— the  marble  style,  you  know — never  was  to  my  taste. 
I  admire  Miss  Jocyln  immensely — just  as  I  do  the  moon  up 
there,  with  no  particular  desire  ever  to  be  nearer." 

*«  What  was  that  stcry  [  heard  once,  five  years  ago,  about 
a  broken  engagement?  Wasn't  Thetford  of  that  ilk  the 
hero  of  the  tale? — the  romantic  Thetford,  who  resigned 
bis  title  and  estate  to  a  mysteriously-found  elder  brother, 
you  know.  The  story  ran  through  the  papers  and  the 
clubs  at  the  tiiae  like  wildfire,  and  set  the  whole  country 
talking,  I  ren:ember.  She  was  engaged  to  him,  wasn't  she, 
and  broke  off?  ■* 

**So  goes  the  story — but  who  knows?  I  recollect  that 
odd  affair  perfectly  well ;  it  was  like  the  melodramas  on 
the  sunny  side  of  the  Thames.  I  know  the  *  mysteriously- 
found  elder  brother,'  too — very  fine  fellow,  Sir  Guy  Thet- 
kbrd,  and  married  to  the  prettiest  little  wife  the  sun  shines 
on.  I  must  say  Rupert  Thetford  behaved  wonderfully  well 
in  that  unpleasant  business  ;  very  few  men  would  do  as  he 
did — they  would,  at  least,  have  made  a  fight  for  the  title 
and  estates.  By-tae-way,  I  wonder  whatever  became  of 
him?" 

"Ileft  him  at  Sorrento,"  said  Stafford,  coolly. 

"  The  deuce  you  did  I    What  was  he  doing  there?" 

" Raving  in  the  fever;  so  the  people  told  me  with  whom 
he  stopped.  I  just  discovered  he  was  in  the  place  as  I  wza 
about  to  leave  it.  He  had  fallen  very  low,  I  fancy ;  his  pic- 
tures didn't  sell,  I  suppose ;  he  has  been  in  the  painting 
line  since  he  ceased  to  be  Sir  Rupert,  and  the  world  h^s 
gone  against  him.  Rather  hard  on  him  to  lose  fortune, 
title,  home,  bride,  and  all  at  one  fell  swoop.  Some  women 
there  are  who  would  go  with  their  plighted  husbands  to 
beggary;  but  I  suppose  the  lovely  Aileen  is  not  one  of 
them." 

**  And  80  you  left  him  ill  of  the  fever?    Poor  fellow  1 " 


|i3 


S/X  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


•'Dangerously  ill." 

"  And  the  people  with  whom  he  is  will  take  very  little 
care  of  him ;  he's  as  good  as  dead.  Let  us  go  in — ^I  want 
to  have  a  look  at  the  latest  English  papers." 

The  two  men  passed  in,  out  of  the  moonlight,  off  the 
piazza,  all  unconscious  that  they  had  had  a  listener.  The 
pale  watcher  in  the  trailing  black  robes,  scarcely  heeding 
them  at  first,  had  grown  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the 
careless  conversation.  She  caught  her  breath  in  quick, 
short  gasps,  the  dark  eyes  dilated,  the  slender  hands  pressed 
themselves  tight  over  the  throbbing  heart.  As  they  went 
in  off  the  balcony  she  slid  from  her  seat  and  held  up  her 
clasped  hands  to  the  luminous  night  sky. 

**  Hear  me,  oh,  God  1  "  the  white  lips  cried — "  I,  who 
have  aided  in  wrecking  a  noble  heart — hear  me,  and  help 
me  to  keep  my  vow  I  I  offer  my  whole  life  in  atonement 
for  the  cruel  and  wicked  past.  If  he  dies,  I  shall  go  to  my 
grave  his  unwedded  widow.     If  he  lives        " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  died  out,  her  face  drooped  for- 
ward on  the  window-sill,  and  the  flashing  moonlight  fell 
like  a  benediction  on  the  bowed  young  head. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


AT  SORRENTO. 


ito  low  light  in  the  western  sky  was  dying  out ;  the  bay 
of  Naples  lay  rosy  in  the  haze  of  the  dying  day ;  and  on 
this  scene  an  invalid,  looking  from  a  window  high  up  OD 
the  sea-washed  cliff  at  Sorrento,  gazed  languidly. 

For  he  was  surely  an  invalid  who  sat  in  that  window 
chair  and  gazed  at  the  wondrous  Italian  sea  and  that  lovify 
Italian  sky;  surely  an  invalid,  with  that  pallid  face,  tfaoit 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


"9 


li 


•pectnl,  hollov  eyes,  those  sunken  cheeks,  those  bloodless 
lips ;  surely  an  invalid,  and  one  but  lately  risen  from  the 
very  gates  of  death — a  pale  shadow,  worn  and  weak  as  a 
child. 

As  he  sits  there,  where  he  has  sat  for  hours,  bnely  and 
alone,  the  door  opens,  and  an  English  face  looks  in — the 
face  of  an  Englishman  of  the  lower  classes. 

*'A  visitor  for  you,  sir — ^just  come,  and  a-foot;  a  lady, 
sir.  She  will  not  give  her  name,  but  wishes  to  see  you 
most  particular,  if  you  please." 

"A  lady  I    To  see  me?" 

The  invalid  opens  his  great,  dark  eyes  in  wonder  as  ho 
speaks. 

"Yes,  sir;  an  English  lady,  sir,  dressed  in  black,  and  a 
wearing  of  a  thick  veil.  She  asked  for  Mr.  Rupert  Thet* 
ford  as  soon  as  she  see  me,  as  plain,  as  plain,  sir ** 

The  young  man  in  the  chair  started,  half  rose,  and  then 
sunk  back — a  wild,  eager  light  lit  in  the  hollow  eyes. 

**  Let  her  ccme  in  j  I  will  see  her ! " 

The  man  disappeared ;  there  was  an  instant's  pause,  then 
a  tall,  slender  %ure,  draped  and  veiled  in  black,  entered 
alone. 

The  visitor  stood  still.  Once  more  the  invalid  attempted 
to  rise,  once  more  his  strength  failed  him.  The  lady  threw 
back  her  veil  with  a  sudden  motion. 

"  My  God,  Aileen  I " 

"  Rupert  1" 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  him,  lifting  her  suppliant 
hands.  . 

"Forgive  me!  Forgive  me!  I  have  seemed  the  most 
heartless  and  cruel  of  women  !  But  I,  too,  have  suffered. 
I  am  base  and  unworthy  \  but,  oh  I  forgive  me,  if  you 
can  I" 

The  old  love,  stronger  than  d^ath,  shone  in  her  eyes, 


t20 


Sm  NOEL* S  HEIR. 


plead  in  her  passionate,  sobbing  voice,  and  went  to  Mat 
very  heart. 

"I  have  been  so  wretched,  so  wretched  all  these  miser* 
able  years  1  Whilst  my  father  lived  I  would  not  disobey 
his  stern  command  that  I  was  never  to  attempt  to  see  or 
hear  from  you,  and  at  his  death  I  could  not.  You  seemed 
lost  to  me  and  the  world.  Only  by  the  merest  accident  I 
heard  in  Venice  you  were  here,  and  ill — dying.  I  lost  no 
time,  I  came  hither  at  once,  hoping  against  hope  to  find 
you  alive.  Thank  God  I  did  come  I  Oh,  Rupert !  Rupert  I 
for  the  sake  of  the  past  forgive  me  !  " 

«'  Forgive  you  1 "  and  he  tried  to  raise  her.  "  Aileen— 
darling  I  " 

His  weak  arms  encircled  her,  and  the  pale  lips  pressed 
passionate  kisses  on  the  tear-wet  face. 

So,  whilst  the  red  glory  of  the  sunset  lay  on  the  sea,  and 
till  the  silver  stars  spangled  the  sky,  the  reunited  lovers  sat 
in  the  soft  haze  as  Adam  and  Eve  may  have  in  the  loveli* 
ness  of  Eden. 

"How  long  since  you  left  England ?**  Rupert  asked  al 
length. 

*'  Two  years  ago ;  poor  papa  died  in  the  south  of  Francft 
You  mustn't  blame  him  too  much,  Rupert." 

*'  My  dearest,  we  will  talk  of  blaming  no  one.  And  Guy 
and  May  are  married  ?    I  knew  they  would  be." 

'^  Did  you?  I  was  so  surprised  \>hen  I  read  it  in  the 
Times  ;  ibr  you  know  May  and  I  never  corresponded — she 
was  frantically  angry  with  me.  Do  they  know  you  are 
here?" 

"  No ;  I  rarely  write,  and  I  am  constantly  moving  about ; 
but  I  know  Guy  is  very  much  beloved  in  St.  Gosport.  Wo 
will  go  back  to  England  one  of  these  days,  my  darling,  and 
give  them  the  greatest  surprise  they  have  received  sinco 
Sir  Guy  Thetford  learned  who  he  really  was," 


fu 


t 


# 


ni) 


ii 


STR  NOEL*S  HEIR, 


131 


He  smiled  as  he  said  it — ^the  old  bright  smile  she  reroeny 
bered  so  well.  Tears  of  joy  filled  the  beautiful,  upturned 
eyes. 

"  And  you  will  go  back  ?  Oh,  Rupert  I  it  needed  but  this 
to  complete  my  happiness  !  " 

He  drew  her  closer,  and  then  there  was  a  long,  delicious 
idlence,  whilst  they  watched  together  the  late-rising  moon 
climbing  the  misty  hilb  above  Castlemare. 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

AT  HOME. 

Another  sunset,  red  and  gorgeous,  over  swelling  En- 
Iflish  meadows,  waving  trees,  and  grassy  terrace,  lighting 
up  with  its  crimson  radiance  the  gray  forest  of  Thetford 
Towers. 

In  the  pretty,  airy  summer  drawing-room,  this  red  sun- 
set streams  through  open  western  windows,  kindling  every- 
thing into  living  light.  It  falls  on  the  bright-haired, 
^rlish  figure,  dressed  in  floating  white,  seated  in  an  arm- 
chair in  the  center  of  the  room :  too  childish  looking,  you 
might  fancy,  at  first  sight,  to  be  mamma  to  that  fat  baby 
»3ie  holds  in  her  lap  j  but  she  is  not  a  bit  too  childish.  And 
that  is  papa,  tall  and  handsome  and  happy,  who  leans  over 
the  chair  and  looks  as  men  do  look  on  what  is  the  apple  of 
their  eye  and  the  pride  of  their  heart. 

*'  It  is  Mgh  time  baby  was  christened,  Guy,"  Lady  Thet- 
Ibrd — for,  of  course.  Lady  Thetford  it  is — was  saying; 
"  and,  do  you  know,  I'm  really  at  a  loss  for  a  name.  Yo« 
won't  let  me  call  him  Guy,  and  I  shan't  call  him  Noel— 
«nd  so  what  is  it  to  be?  " 

"  Rupert,  of  course,"  Sir  Guy  suggests;  and  little  Lady 
Tbitford  pouts. 


132 


SIR  NOBLES  HSnt. 


"He  doesn't  deserve  the  compliment.  Shabby  feHow  1 
To  keep  wandering  about  the  world  as  he  does,  and  nevet 
to  answer  one's  letter ;  and  I  sent  him  half  a  ream  last 
time,  if  I  sent  him  a  sheet,  telling  all  about  baby,  and  ask- 
ing him  to  come  and  be  godfather,  and  coaxing  him  witlf 
the  eloquence  of  a  female  Demos — ^what-you-roay-call-himc 
And  to  think  it  should  be  all  of  no  use  I  To  think  of  nol 
receiving  a  line  in  return  I  It  is  using  me  shamefully,  and 
I  don't  believe  I  will  call  baby  Rupert." 

"  Oh,  yes  you  will,  my  dear  I  Well,  Smithers,  what  b 
it?" 

**  For  Mr.  Smithers,  the  butler,  stood  in  the  doorway, 
with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face. 

"  It's  a  gentleman — leastways  a  lady — leastways  a  lady 
and  gentleman.    Oh  I  here  they  come  theirselves  I  " 

Mr.  Smithers  retired  precipitately,  still  pale  and  startled 
of  visage,  as  a  gentleman,  with  a  lady  on  his  arm,  stood 
before  Sir  Guy  and  Lady  Thetford. 

There  was  a  cry,  a  half  shout,  from  the  young  baronet, 
a  wild  shriek  from  the  lady.  She  sprung  to  her  feet,  and* 
nearly  dropped  the  precious  baby. 

"  Rupert  1    Aileen  1 " 

She  never  got  any  further — this  impetuous  little  Lady 
Thetford;  for  she  was  kissing  first  one,  then  the  other, 
crying  and  laughing  and  talking,  all  in  one  breath. 

"  Oh,  what  a  surprise  this  is  I  0\  Rupert  I  I'm  so  glad, 
'  ^  glad  to  see  you  again  I  Oh,  Aileen  1  I  never,  never 
hoped  for  this  I  Oh  I  good  gracious,  Guy,  did  yon 
ever  1  " 

But  Guy  was  wringing  his  brother's  hand,  with  bright 
tears  standing  in  his  eyes,  and  quite  unable  to  reply. 

"  And  this  is  the  baby,  May  ?  The  wonderful  baby  you 
wrote  me  so  much  about,"  Mr.  Rupert  Thetford  said.    **  h 


SIR  NOEL 'S  HEIR. 


12^ 


noble  little  fellow,  upon  my  word— and  a  Thetford  from 
top  to  toe.    Am  I  in  season  to  be  godfather  I  " 

"  Just  in  time ;  and  we  are  going  to  call  it  Rupert ;  and 
I  was  just  scolding  dreadfully  because  you  hadn't  answered 
my  letter,  never  dreaming  that  you  were  coming  to  an» 
swer  in  person  I  I  would  as  soon  have  expected  the  man 
in  the  moon.  And  Aileen,  too  I  And  to  think  you  should 
be  married,  after  all !  Oh,  gracious  me !  Do  sit  down  and 
tell  me  all  about  it  t " 

It  was  such  a  delightful  evening,  so  like  old  times,  and 
May  in  the  possession  of  a  baby,  that  Rupert  and  Aileeo 
nearly  w^nt  delirious  with  delight. 

"  And  you  are  going  to  remain  in  England  ?  "  Sir  Guy 
eagerly  asked,  when  he  had  heard  a  resume  of  those  past 
five  years.     "  Going  to  reside  at  Jocyln  Hall  ?  " 

**  Yes ;  and  be  neighbors,  if  you  will  let  us." 

**  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  I  " 

•*  I  promised  Aileen  j  and  now — now  I  am  willing  to  be 
It  home  in  England,"  and  he  looked  fondly  at  his  wife. 

"It  is  just  like  a  fairy-tale,"  said  May. 

**  We  haven't  yet  been  to  Jocyln  Hall.  We  came  at  once 
here,  to  see  this  prodigy  of  babies — my  wonderful  little 
namesake." 

Very  late  that  night,  when  the  reunited  friends  sought 
their  chambers.  May  lifted  her  golden  head  off  the  pillow, 
and  looked  at  her  husband  entering  the  room. 

"It's  so  very  odd,  Guy,"  slowly  and  drowsily,  **  to  think 
that,  aft«r  all,  a  Rupert  Thetford  should  be  Sir  Noel's 


.11 


£XBB  IMD.^ 


A  HEARTLESS  GIRL. 


BY  FBANCES  HENSHAYr  BADEN. 

IT  was  a  luxuriously-furnished  apartment.  The  walla 
were  covered  with  tare  paintings,  statuettes,  and  gems 
of  art,  adorning  every  available  nook.  Books  and  flowers 
were  scattered  in  elegant  confusion,  in  the  midst  of  which, 
reclining  in  a  satin-covered  lounge,  was  a  young  girl. 

At  first  glance,  the  graceful  figure,  the  brilliancy  of  tho 
coloring,  would  most  frequently  call  forth  an  expression 
of  admiration. 

Mira  Gardner  ought  certainly  to  have  won  the  palm 
of  beauty.  "With  a  wealth  of  bright,  golden  tresses,  were 
eyes,  large,  full,  and  amber  hue ;  features  small,  and  deli- 
cate ;  a  complexion  of  wonderful  fairness,  while  the  bright 
crimson  hue  of  health  painted  her  cheeks  and  lips.  Yet, 
with  all  these,  one  would  turn  away  feeling  disappointed, 
and  the  thought  flash  through  their  mind,  "  Hollow  to  the 
heart's  core." 

Yes,  the  expression  of  Mira's  eyes  was  cold  and  proud. 
The  cu*'  .r  the  ruby  lips  haughty  and  selfish. 

She  had  tossed  the  book  she  had  been  reading  carelessly 
aside,  and  was  idly  toying  with  a  magnificent  diamond 
Bolitaire,  which  encircled  her  forefinger. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  young  girl  entered.  A  "  wee 
brownie,"  from  the  wave  of  her  soft  brown  hair,  to  the 
hem  of  her  plain,  sombre  dress.  A  lovely  face  w^JBessi^ 
Mi^nard's,  full  of  trutlu  love  and  sympat]^. 


A    HEABTLESS    OIBL. 


m 


These  girls,  bo  entirely  different  in  mind,  heart  and 
features,  were  own  cousins.  Yet,  it  was  plain  enough  to 
Bee  which  was  the  petted  fevorite,  and  which  the  poor 
dependent. 

When  Bessie  came  to  Mira's  side,  the  diamond  attracted 
her  attention  directly ;  then,  glancing  at  her  cousin's  other 
hand,  she  missed  another  ring  that  for  many  months  she 
had  worn. 

"Why,  Mira,  where  is  your  ring?"  she  asked,  quickly, 

"This  is  my  ring,"  iMira  answered,  holding  up  the  spark- 
ling circlet. 

"Yours  I  Oh,  no  J  Mira,  I  hope  not  I  Where  is  your 
engagement-ring  ?  " 

"This  is  my  engagement-ring,  Bessie,"  Mira  answered, 
2q  a  lower  and  somewhat  faltering  tone. 

"Oh,  Mira  I  No,  you  do  not  mean  it.  Poor  Georgel 
You  have  not  broken  off  with  him,  surely  not  ?  " 

"  Virtually,  I  have,  Bessie.  Yet,  not  by  any  word.  He 
is  coming  to-day.  Then  it  will  be  ended."  As  Mira  said 
this,  she  dropped  her  eyes  from  the  searching,  chiding, 
iorrowful  ones  gazing  into  hers. 

"  Mira,  then  you  have  heard  the  news.  I  did  not,  until 
just  now,  and  came  to  break  it  gently  to  you." 

"  Yes ;  Phil  Sefton  told  me  last  night.  It  is  a  complete 
feilure.  The  firm^has  gone  up,  and  every  dollar  of  George's 
gone  with  it.  He  will  have  to  begin  again,  now — go  as  a 
clerk,  or  something  of  the  kind,  at  a  miserable  salaiy, 
and—" 

"And,  for  this  misfortune,  you  have  given  him  up  I  " 

The  brown  eyes  were  no  longer  sorrowful  and  loving, 
but,  filled  with  indignation,  and  flashing  their  full  force  on 
Mira,  she  cried : 

"  How  could  you  ?  How  dare  you  trample  on  such  ft 
trae,  noble  heart?  Mira  Garduer,  Phil  Sefton  knows 
8  


-M 


182 


'jr*VSA1ITX<ES8   OXBZ.; 


nothing  of  love  like  George  Event's.  What  has  h%  Inrt 
his  gold?  Nothing.  And,  mark  me.  Marry  him,  and 
you  will,  in  less  than  five  years,  reap  your  reward.  Bittei 
enough  it  will  be." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you  speak  thus  to 
me,  and  of  a  man  who  is  soon  to  be  my  husband? " 

"  Mira,  I  dare  anything,  to  try  and  save  you  I  Phil  Sef- 
ton  will  fill  a  drunkard's  grave." 

"  Hush !  hush  1  You  shall  not  say  such  horrible  thingst 
Why  do  you,  Bessie?" 

"  Why  ?  Because  I  feel  it.  I  have  seen  him  intoxicated 
'••^ou  have — within  the  last  six  weeks.  Oh,  Mira,  my 
cousin,  it  is  not  too  late  to  save  yourself  1  Send  him  forthS 
Be  true  to  yourself  I    Be  true  to  George  I " 

"Bessie,  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you.  You  are  doing 
right,  you  think.  And  for  you,  with  your  romantic  ideas 
of  love  in  a  cottage,  it  is  all  very  well  I  You  could  live, 
and  be  happy,  with  very  few  of  the  good  things  of  earth— 
you  don't  care  for  beautiful  things." 

"Do  I  not?"  Bessie  asked,  reproachfally. 

"Well,  you  can  live  without  them,  while  I  cannot.  % 
must  be  surrounded  with  luxury  and  beauty  I  Now,  listen. 
I  do  not  give  up  George,  without  some  pain.  If  he  had 
money  enough  to  make  me  comfortable,  to  place  me  ia 
Buch  a  home  as  I  mvM  have  to  be  happy,  I  would  sooner 
be  his  wife  than  any  man's  on  earth !  He  has  everything 
to  make  a  woman  happy,  but  money.  He  must  work 
now  anew.  Years,  many  of  them,  may  pass,  ere  he  can 
gain  even  a  moderate  amount  of  wealth.  Perhaps  ho 
never  may.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  be  growing  older. 
My  beauty,  not  growing  greater,  by  the  suspense  and 
waiting,  I  should  lose,  then,  this  golden  chance.  I  cannot 
afford  it  You  know,  aunty  will  have  nothing  to  leavo 
behind,  whexijhe  goes  isam  this  world.    AU  this  styla  of 


A    RBABTLEB8   OIBL. 


133 


I 


firing,  like  her  pension,  ceases  with  her  life.  Everything 
is  covered  with  mortgages.  You  can  find  a  home  any- 
where.  People  will  gladly  welcome  you.  You  are  a 
handy  little  busybody,  who  can  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
others,  too.  I  must  be  taken  care  of.  No,  no,  Bessie,  I 
never  would  do  for  a  poor  man's  wife,  while  you  would 
prove  a  jewel  to  one.  Why  could  not  George  have  taken 
to  you,  I  wonder?  Indeed,  when  we  first  knew  him,  I 
almost  feared  he  did  like  you  best  1 " 

Again  the  brown  eyes  were  flashing  out  their  indig- 
Ziati  vn. 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  not  comfort  him  now? "the 
Iieartless  girl  continued. 

"Would  that  God  would  bless  me  with  the  power," 
BeiNsie's  heart  murmured,  as  she  turned  to  hide  the  face  she 
felt  had  grown  very  pale,  as  the  ruthless  hand  had  sought 
to  draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  reveal  the  heart,  whose 
secret  she  had  hid  away  so  long. 

Yes,  Greorge  Everit  had  first  been  attracted  by  Bessie's 
quiet  loveliness.  And  the  gentle  girl's  heart  welcomed  the 
prospect  of  winning  such  love  as  she  felt  he  could  give. 
But  Mira's  powers  of  fascination  were  levelled  with  all 
their  force,  and  poor  little  Bessie  was  thrown  completely  in 
the  background.  Mira  succeeded,  of  course,  and  we  see 
how  lightly  she  prized  the  heart  she  had  won.  , 

Bessie  and  Mira  were  both  the  orphan  nieces  of  a  Mrs. 
Edgard,  the  widow  of  a  naval  officer.  Mira  was  her 
Bister's  child,  who  was  said  to  be  wonderfully  like  her 
aunt,  80  she  was  petted  and  indulged  in  every  possible 
way,  while  Bessie,  her  brother's  daughter,  was  given  a 
homBf  and  a  moderate  amount  of  kindness,  but  ex^'^ected, 
in  return,  to  make  herself  generally  useful  i 

At  Bessie  turned,  pained  and  mortified  by  Mint's  croei 
iy<wh|  the  haU-b^sounded, 


:84 


A    ^EABTLESS    OISLJ 


"It  IB  George,  I  know!"  exclaimed  Mira,  starting  tip^ 
and  glancing  in  the  mirror.  "  Now  for  a  time  I  Ugh,  I  do 
dread  it !  Here,  Bessie,  put  this  ring  in  my  jewel-case.  I 
would  not  have  him  see  it  for  anything  1  He  will  think 
bad  enough  of  me,  anyhow,  and,  if  ho  knew  all — oh, 
Heaven !    Here  he  comes  I " 

Bessie  escaped  through  an  opposite  door,  as  George 
Everit  entered. 

His  handsome  face  was  very  pale.  There  was  an, 
anxious,  doubtful  look  in  hia  dark  eyes  as  he  crossed  the 
room. 

Mira  raised  not  to  meet  him.  No  smile  of  welcome 
wreathed  the  haughty  lips. 

Pausing,  e'er  he  reached  her  side,  George  said,  in  a  low, 
depressed  tone, 

**  I  see  you  have  heard  all,  Mira." 

"  Yes,  sit  down,''  she  said,  pointing  to  a  chair, 

"And  have  you  no  word  of  comfort  ?  Oh,  my  love,  1 
can  give  up  everything  with  a  light  heart,  so  long  as  I  have 
you."  He  pushed  aside  the  chair,  and  seating  himself 
beside  her,  attempted  to  take  her  hand.  Drawing  away 
from  him,  she  said,  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice, 

"George — Mr.  Everit,  Heaven  knows  I  deeply  regret 
your  trouble ;  so  much  so,  that  I  cannot  burden  either 
your  heart  or  hand." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mira?  Why  am  I  Mr.  Everit? 
Oh,  you  cannot  mean — " 

"  I  mean,  you  must  surely  understand,  I  could  neve* 
make  a  poor  man  happy.    I  know  nothing  of  privation—^' 

"  Heaven  forbid,  Mira,  that  this  should  ever  be  neceg- 
eary.  In  a  few  years,  I  shall  win  back  the  lost  gold,  and 
more ;  I  feel  it,  I  know  it."  He  raised  his  eyes,  earnest  and 
Joving  to  hers,  to  meet  only  a  cold,  calculating  expresaioa 
|ifot  OQd  word  to  bid  him  be  of  good  cheer  was  ttttesid« 


A    BBABTLE88    OXBL. 


135 


Hien  for  the  first  he  seemed  to  understand  it  alL  Leav^ 
feg  his  seat,  he  stood  with  folded  arms  before  her. 

**  Then  I  am  to  understand  all  is  over  between  us,"  he 
■aid,  in  a  voice  quivering  with  deep  emotion. 

She  could  not  speak.  She  dared  not  raise  her  eyes. 
False  and  hollow  though  she  was,  she  felt  ashamed,  and 
dreaded  to  witness  the  effect  of  her  perfidy. 

"  Then,  Miss  Gardner,  it  was  for  my  gold  alone  you 
cared.  I  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  misfortune  that  exposes 
your  heart  in  its  true  light.  The  day  is  not  far  distant,  I 
trust,  when  I  shall  look  back  to  this  hour,  without  one 
pang  of  regret.  Farewell,  Mira ;  God  grant  the  blow  you 
have  given  me  may  not  return  with  double  force  to  your 
own  heart." 

He  was  turning  away,  when  Mira  said,  in  a  Mteiing 
Toice — she  could  not  speak  hia  name, 

"Please  take  this." 

He  turned  to  receive  the  ring  he  had  given  six  months 
before,  when  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife.  Closing  his 
hand  over  the  costly  jewel,  he  hurried  down  the  stairs  into 
the  hall.  He  was  turning  the  door-knob,  when  a  little 
figure  stole  quietly  to  his  side. 

A  tiny,  gentle  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm,  and  BessieVi 
beautiful  eyes,  full  of  sympathy,  were  raised  to  his,  as  she 
said, 

"  I  am  80  very,  very  sorry  for  your  trouble.  Not  so  much 
the  financial,  for  that  you  will  make  all  right  in  time,  I 
know.  But — "  she  hesitated ;  her  eyes  were  filling  with  tears. 

"Ah,  you  know  it,  then.  Well,  dry  your  tears,  little 
one.  This  will  not  kill  me.  I  ought  to  thank  God.  But 
it  hurts  now,  pretty  badly.  I  had  believed  her  so  difier- 
ent  Good-by,  Bessie ;  I  shall  remember  your  kind  sym- 
pathy. I  may  leave  here  for  the  far  West.  It  is  not  quito 
dMJ|d^  jrel»   I  inU  see  J4>u  Agaiii,  if  I  gow** 


186 


▲    HEABTtiESS    OIBL. 


"Good-by;  Heaven  bles3  you,"  murmured  Bessie,  in  a 
low,  faltering  voice,  as  George  warmly  pressed  her  hand 
and  hurried  off. 

"  Dear  little  girl  I  What  a  fool  I  was  to  bo  won  from 
her  1  She  is  truth  and  purity  itself.  Well,  well ;  now  that 
dream  is  over.    I  must  to  work  again." 

The  news  of  Mira's  engagement  to  Phil  Scfton,  which 
was  announced  a  few  days  after,  served  to  dispel  any 
lingering  regard  that  George  retained  for  Mira. 

He  fully  understood  her  then,  and  felt  a  relief  that  he 
had  escaped  from  so  false  and  heartless  a  woman. 

On  the  eve  of  his  leaving  home,  he  called  on  Bessie. 
While  there,  he  felt  sure  that  one  heart,  at  least,  would 
truly  mourn  his  absence. 

"  Bessie,  you  know  I  have  neither  mother  nor  sisters. 
Well,  I  had  a  picture  taken,  some  weeks  ago,  for  Mira ; " 
he  could  speak  her  name  calmly  enough  now.  "  May  I 
Bend  it  to  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  yesl  Thank  you!"  Bessie's  face  was  bright 
with  smiles  and  blushes  as  s/iO  answered. 

"And  you,  when  looking  at  it,  will  sometimes  breathe  a 
prayer  for  my  guidance  and  success  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  did  not  speak  her  answer,  only  through  the  soft 
brown  eyes  that  were  raised  to  his.  And  George  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  shall  drop  my  little  sister  a  line  occasionally,  or  send 
a  paper  to  let  her  know  my  whereabouts.  And  now  I 
must  go.    God  bless  you,  Bessie.    Should  I  ever  return  to 

B -,  I  shall  seek  you  directly.    I  trust  it  will  not  be 

very  long  ere  I  may." 

And  so  they  parted,  George  thinking,  "  Well,  the  time 
was  when  I  might  have  won  her.  But  'tis  only  pity  no". 
6he  is  a  dear,  sensitive  little  thing,  who  is  meriy  with  (ii» 
Jiappy,  and  sorrowing  with  the  wretched." 


A    BSABTLES8     GIRL, 


WT 


Bessie  ran  to  her  room  to  have  a  little  cry.  But  tha 
tears  were  soon  dried  when  she  thought  of  the  coming 
picture.  And  she  said,  "  Oli,  thank  heaven  for  that  com* 
fortl  And  i  will  hear  from  hiin,  too!"  And  if  other 
thoughts  and  other  hopes  came  to  ber  young  heart,  I  have 
no  right  to  peep  in  and  sec. 

In  two  months  Mira  was  married  to  Pliil  Sefton.  Th* 
wedding  was  a  grand  affair.  The  presents  numerous  and 
magnificent.  After  an  extended  tour  Phil  Sefton  brought 
his  bride  to  a  home  of  euflficient  rplendor  to  fully  satisfy 
Mira's  highest  ambition. 

Ere  six  months  had  passed,  rainy  times  lictle  Bessie'g 
warning  prediction  was  brought  ^o  Mira's  mind.  For  oa 
several  occasions  her  husband  !*}ad  returned  to  her  very 
much  under  the  influence  of  wine,  and  from  words 
dropped  while  in  this  state,  sl>e  learned  he  had  met  with 
severe  losses  at  the  gaming  tatle. 

♦  *  *  >n  ♦  *  ♦ 

Seven  years  have  passed.    George  Everit  is  again  in 

B .     Success  has  crowned  his  efforts  most  bountifully. 

Not  that  he  has  grown  wonderfully  rich  in  these  few  years, 
for  to  have  done  that  ho  Avould  have  either  to  have  struck  a 
mine,  or  have  found  some  rich  old  relative,  who  was  con- 
's? derate  enougli  to  leave  the  world  as  soon  as  discovered, 
consigning  to  George's  care  his  gold.  But  as  neither  of 
these  happened  to  our  hero,  he  had  only  just  secured 
enough  to  make  him  perfectly  sure  of  his  future.  Ha 
knew  he  was  on  the  high  road  to  a  fortune  which  would 
satisfy  his  high  ambition. 

His  cliief  business  to  his  native  city  was  to  find  Bessie. 
He  knew  that  she  was  still  unmarried,  and  he  trusted  free 
to  receive  his  love,  for  the  gentle  girl  had  grown  very 
dear  to  him  during  these  years  of  absence.  Ho  had  not 
Apprised  her  of  hia  coming.  H^  hoped  to  give  her  a 
glad  gurpriBe. 


138 


X  if^ABTLESs'   aiBL. 


Immediately  on  Tris  arrival  in  the  city  he  had  gone  to  a 
hotel,  changed  his  travelling  suit,  and,  making  a  careful 
toilette,  went  down  to  the  office  to  search  the  directory  to 
find  Bessie.  While  thus  occupied  a  slight  disturbance 
caused  him  to  turn  in  time  to  see  a  man  pushed  out,  and 
catch  the  words,  "  It's  deuced  hard  to  put  out  a  fellow  who 
has  spent  thousands  of  dollars  with  you  1 " 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  George,  stepping  to  the  door. 

"  His  name  is  Phil  Sefton.  He  has  grown  to  be  a  per- 
fect sot,  and  is  very  annoying  at  times.  This  is  a  nightly 
occurrence ;  if  not  here,  from  some  other  house." 

"  Great  heaven !  Is  it  possible  I "  exclaimed  George, 
hurrying  out  just  in  time  to  see  the  miserable  man  reel 
and  fall. 

Stepping  quickly  to  his  side  he  found  he  had  received 
quite  a  severe  cut,  from  which  the  blood  was  flowing 
freely.  Assisting  him  to  a  neighboring  drug-store,  where 
the  wound  was  examined  and  found  not  dangerous, 
George  then  obtained  a  carriage. 

The  loss  of  considerable  blood  had  quite  sobered,  as  well 
as  very  much  weakened,  the  poor  creature. 

"  Where  shall  I  direct  the  driver  ?  "  George  asked,  after 
placing  him  comfortably  in. 

Sefton  gave  the  desired  answer,  and  then,  turning  in- 
quiringly to  George,  he  said : 

"  Your  face  is  familiar.    Have  I  ever  known  you  7  " 

.  George  felt  a  delicacy  in  discovering  himself  to  the  ficdleQ 
man.    So,  evading  the  question,  he  said  : 

"  My  home  is  in  the  far  West.  I  have  just,  a  couple  of 
hours  ago,  arrived  in  this  city." 

A  few  minutes'  drive  brought  them  to  their  destination. 
A  very  small  house  in  an  obscure  street. 

"  Poor  Mira  I  And  this  is  her  home  I  This  the  end  of 
her  bright  visicma  I "  George  said,  his  heart  filled  with  pitj 


A     BBAftrtLSSS    OIBL. 


13d 


*  I  may  help  this  poor  fellow  in.  I  shall  not  see  her, 
tnost  likely.  And,  should  I,  she  will  not  know  me  in 
this  dim  twilight.  Besides,  I  must  have  changed  very 
much.    Well,  I'll  risk  it." 

The  driver  had  already  pulled  the  bell.  Just  as  they 
reached  the  step  the  door  opened,  and  Mira  said,  in  angry 
voice,  "Again ! " 

Oh,  what  a  miserable  wreck  she  was  I  George's  heart 
ached  for  her. 

Noticing  the  pale  &ce  and  bandaged  brow,  she  asked,  in 
a  gentler  tone : 

"Are  you  ill,  or  hurt?  " 

And  then  her  eyes  rested  on  George. 

The  first  instant  she  seemed  not  to  recognize  him ;  but 
almost  immediately  after,  with  a  suppressed  cry,  she 
grasped  the  door,  as  if  for  support. 

Recovering  herself  she  pointed  to  an  open  door,  and 
said  to  the  driver : 

"  In  there,  please  take  him  I "  Then,  as  she  was  left  a 
moment  alone  with  George,  she  said,  bitterly : 

"  You  might  have  spared  me  this." 

"  Heaven  knows  I  would  have,  gladly.  He  was  thrown 
on  my  hands ;  I  could  not  desert  him.  I  thought  not  to 
see  you." 

He  stopped  to  follow  out  and  pay  the  driver;  a  Ynoment 
and  he  was  back  to  say, 

"  The  past  is  forgiven,  Mira.  Look  on  me  as  your  hus- 
band's friend,  and  let  me  prove  that  I  am  truly  his  and 
yours." 

"  No,  no,  you  cannot  help  me.  Only  go !  for  mercy's 
sake,  go  I "  she  cried. 

"  Then  good-by,  and  God  help  you,  Mira,"  George  said, 
■adly,  and  turned  away. 

little  Bessie's  day's  work  was  done.    She  sat,  resting 


140 


A   HEABTLESS    OIBL. 


her  busy  fingers,  and  thinking.  Far  across  broad  ritws, 
and  over  wide  prairies,  her  mind  wandered,  while 
her  eyes  were  lifted  to  a  picture  that  hung  over  the 
mantel. 

She  heard  the  door  open,  but  did  not  turn,  until  a  voice 
said, 

"A  gentleman  to  see  Miss  Bessie  1 " 

With  a  joyous  cry  she  sprang  forward,  only  a  few  stepa, 
to  stop,  drop  the  extended  welcoming  arms,  and  with  a 
doubting  heart,  to  wait  hw  greeting. 

But  it  was  too  late;  George  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
saying, 

"  Oh,  you  dear  little  prude !  You  are  glad  to  see  me, 
but  are  not  quite  sure  it  would  be  just  proper  to  show 
your  joy.  Now,  I  have  no  sucli  scruples,  you  see,"  press- 
ing his  lips  to  her  clear,  smooth  brow. 

He  drew  her  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  still  holding  her 
hand  as  he  sat  beside  her. 

"  Now,  tell  me  of  yourself;  first,  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  bright  face  saddened,  as  she  said, 

"  Dear  aunt  passed  away  two  years  ago.  Since,  I  have 
found  a  homo  here,  with  a  friend.  She  has  five  little  girls. 
I  take  care  of  them,  and  teach  thorn.  This  is  our  study- 
room,  and  my  sanctum.  They  arc  dear,  good  children, 
and  I  am  very  happy  hero." 

"And  Mira,  poor  girl,"  George  was  saying,  when  Bessie 
asked, 

"  Do  you  know  of  her  sorrow  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  loft  her,"  George  answered ;  and  then  ha 
told  her  of  their  meeting. 

"  Yes,  Mira's  life  was  as  brief  as  it  was  brilliant,"  Beasl« 
said,  sadly. 
"  Can  nothing  be  done  to  help  her  ?  "  Qec  -je  aake^ 


A  BSABVLES8    OIBL. 


141 


"No J  his  is  a  hopeless  case.  His  mother  will  not  let 
them  suffer,  either  for  food,  fuel,  or  clothing.  Should  they 
have  more,  he  would  take  it  to  the  gaming  table,  or  to 
obtain  liquor.  Now,  tell  me  of  yourself.  When  did  you 
come  ?  "  Bessie  said. 

" This  afternoon.    And  did  you  ask  what  for?"  George 
eskedj  laughing. 
"  No ;  that  would  have  scarcely  been  polite." 
"  Well,  little  piece  of  prudence  and  poUteness,  I  will 
fuppose  you  did,  and  therefore  answer : 

"  I  came,  wholly  and  entirely,  to  take  back  to  my  west- 
err,  home,  a  dear  little  brown-eyed  girl,  that  I  have  been 
longing  for,  well,  about  seven  years,  I  think.  Now,  will 
she  come  with  me  ?  " 

He  had  drawn  her  closer  to  him ;  and,  lifting  the  beau- 
tiful, blushing  face,  was  looking  earnestly,  pleadingly  into 
the  soft,  brown  eyes,  as  he  repeated, 

"  Will  she  come,  Bessie  ?    Tell  me,  love  ?  " 
"  With  you — me  ?     Do  you  mean  me  ?  "  she  whispered, 
■while  he  could  almost  hear  her  heart  beating,  nearly 
^ (..rating,  with  its  fulness  of  joy. 

'■  fes,  yes,  my  own."  He  drew  her,  unresisting,  to  hia 
x,.)r.v  Her  head  sank  on  his  bosom,  and  as  he  pressed 
h^:'  i''  3  to  hers,  he  said, 

"Thank  God  for  this  blessed  boon.  Ah,  little  Bessie, 
this  hour  repays  all  the  suffering,  doubts  and  trials  of  the 
years  gOi>v  by." 

A  few  weeks  after,  George  carried  his  lovely  bride 
to  the  beautiful  home  he  made  for  her,  in  his  adopted 
State. 

Before  leaving,  Bessie  went  to  bid  Mira  good-by.  Suf- 
f  >rjug  had  softened  the  heart,  once  so  cold  and  selfish. 

"  May  you  be  happy,  Bessie ;  I  know  you  will.  I  never 
was  worthy  of  George's  love.    If  I  had  kept  it,  I  should 


142 


A    HBABTLESS    OIBZ.. 


1 1 


II 


never  have  made  him  happy.  You  will  take  him  my  b«l 
wishes."    And  so  they  parted. 

Six  months  more,  and  Philip  Sefton  had  passed  from 
earth.  Naturally  of  a  frail  constitution,  dissipation  and 
exposure  sooi  did  its  work.  An  illness  of  a  few  weeks 
brought  a  full  ^ion  of  the  wasted,  sinful  life.    And 

I  truly  believe  he  *     ame  a  deeply  repentant  man. 

Mira,  with  her  two  little  children,  is  living  with  her 
husband's  mother.  And  though  a  sadder,  is  a  much  wiaec 
woman. 


OFF  WITH  THE  OLD  LOVE. 


BT     FBAKCXSS     HISN8EAW     BADEK. 

••TNDEED,  I  must  put  an  end  to  this  affair  with  Gus 
X  Heywood !  I  really  believe  the  foolish  fellow  thinks 
I  am  in  love  with  him.  I  promised  to  go  with  him  to  the 
park  this  aftevnoon.  If  I  keep  that  engagement  I  know 
tvhat  it  will  result  in.  He  will  be  sure  to  offer  me  his 
heart,  and  the  big  grocery  store  in  the  bargain.  Then, 
when  I  do  not  seem  perfectly  delighted  with  his  generosity, 
he  will  say  lots  of  things,  all  the  more  unpleasant  because 
true ;  about  my  having  encouraged  him,  and  such  non- 
sense. I  certainly  must  get  him  off  as  quietly  and  quickly 
OS  possible,"  said  pretty  Hilda  Hastings. 

"  But  how  f  That  is  a  question  of  grave  consideration. 
Oh,  I  know  I  Patsey  ?  Come  here  a  moment.  Patsey,  if 
the  door-bell  rings,  and  it  is  Mr.  Heywood,  just  say  I  am 
'  not  at  home.'  And  to  keep  it  from  being  a  story,  I  will 
run  out  in  the  garden  and  pick  some  flowers.'* 

"NOf  miss.  'Deed,  Miss  Hilda,  I  'clare  to  de  Lord,  I  aini 
gwine  to  do  no  more  of  dat  kind  of  work." 
"  But  you  mtJLst,  Patsey.  Besides,  it  is  no  work  at  alL" 
*'  It  might  be  bad  work  for  dis  chile.  'Sides,  dem  days 
of  sayin'  must  dun  past  now,  honey.  Ef  dey  hadn't,  you 
dent  ketch  dis  chile  lyin\  'cepta  I  gits  better  pay  den  I  did 
last  time.  Den  I  took  my  Bible  cafe  net  to  do  dat  agin. 
'Taint  not  been  seben  weeks  sence  Miss  Lola  liked  to  bin 
the  deaf  of  m&    Don't  you  'membec?'' 

a48) 


144 


OFF    WITH    THE    OLD    LOYB. 


"No,  Patsey,  I  was  in  the  country  then.    But  teD 
while  I  am  dressing." 

"  Yes,  honey,  but  I  mus'  go  down  and  put  de  dough  to 
rise.    I  kin  spare  de  time  den." 

In  a  marvellously  short  time  Patsey  was  back  again  and 
began  her  story. 

"  You  know  Marse  Gineral  Boyd  ?  While  you  was  gone 
he  use  to  cum  see  Miss  Lola.  You  know  she  nebber  was 
easy  'cept  she  had  two  or  three  dyin'  in  lub  wid  her.  De 
general  nebber  knowed  she  was  'gaged  to  Mr.  Reggie 
Chauncey.  Sure  he  didn't  know  nuffin.  So,  when  Miss 
Lola  rolled  dem  black  eyes  of  hern  at  him,  he  was  gona 
Lor',  honey,  he  was  captured  quicker  den  anybody  I  ever 
(Seed.  And  you  knows,  when  middling  old  gemmeu  falls 
in  lub,  they're  heap  wusser  den  young  uns.  I  was  hi4 
'hind  the  foldin'-door"  once,  and  hearn  him  callin'  her  ^hia 
queen,'  and  all  de  stars,  and  angels;  and  tellin'  her  he 
only  libed  for  her;  and  would  die  ef  she  wouldn't  be 
hissen. 

"Well,  honey,  folks  told  Miss  Lola  dat  she  better  stop 
foolin'  with  him,  for  he  was  sartm'  in  earnest;  and  dar 
was  no  knowiu'  what  he  mightent  do.  Maybe  kill  himself 
and  her  too.  So  she  thought  ef  she  could  jiss  Keep  away 
from  him  until  she  could  git  ready,  den  she'd  go  off  to  de 
country,  and  so  git  rid  of  him.  So  she  sent  down  word  as 
how  she  was  sick,  two  or  free  times.  De  lor's  I  dat  maked 
de  case  wus,  cause  ho  went  off,  and  arter  a  while  dey  cornea 
'bout  a  cart-load  of  flowers,  and  oranges,  and  lemons,  and 
jellies,  and  'serves,  and  books,  and  papers,  and  cologne- 
bottles,  and  picters  of  angels  and  lubbers,  and  ebery  ting 
dat  heart  could  wish.  Miss  Lola  knowed  she  mus' git  well 
mire,  and  stop  dat  kind  of  doings, 

"  Jest  about  dat  time  she  got  a  letter  sayin*  Mister  Reg* 
gie  would  come  home  on  a  Friday*   80  dat  momin'  iho 


dFp    WITH    THB    OLD    LOVE. 


145 


told  me,  when  de  gineral   cumed,  to  say  she  wasn't 
home. 

"  Well,  honey,  you  knowed  he  had  hern  she  was  better. 
So  he  cum  den,  sure  ho  was  gwine  to  see  her. 

"  Lor',  how  he  was  fixed  up !  Drest  jes  like  as  how 
he  was  gwine  to  de  gov'ner's  ball. 

"  I  was  ready  for  him.  But,  lor',  honey,  'sted  of  afekin*, 
like  gemmen  ought  to,  *  Is  Miss  Hartly  in  ? '  bress  you, 
chile,  he  walked  right  pass  me  into  de  'ception-room,  and 
took  a  cheer,  pulled  off  his  white  kids,  and  den  said : 

"  *  Let  Miss  Hartly  know  I  am  here.' 

*'Dat  took  me  back  a  little.  I  wasn't  'pared  for  sich  sort 
of  doin's.     But  I  'lected  my  thoughts  and  said; 

"  *  Miss  Hartly  ain't  in.' 

***  What  I '  he  hollered  out,  so  fierce-like,  it  most  took  my 
bref  away, 

"  *  Miss  Lola,  sir,  ain't  in,'  I  said.  And  den  he  snapped 
bis  eyes,  and  grit  his  teeth  so,  dat  I  was  skeer'd  right  out 
of  my  senses ;  and  I  said : 

•-  'Deed  ain't  she,  'cause  she  told  me  to  tell  you  so — * 

"  Den  he  jumped  up,  and  walked  up  and  down  de  floor, 
lookin'  awful  scarey.    He  stopped  at  last,  and  said : 
,    ***Go-^  tell  Miss  Hartly,  I  am  waitin'  to  see  her.' 

"  Lor',  I  knowed  better  den  to  go.  I  knowed  de  kind  of 
Bngel  Miss  Lola  is  when  she's  mad.  So  I  folds  my  arms 
and  looks  at  him  in  a  'sided  way ;  like  ef  I  wasn't  to  be 
Kjared ;  and  said : 

"  *  How  I  gwine  to  tell  her  ef  she  ain't  in  ?' 

*• '  Go  1 '  he  hollered  agin.    But  I  didn't  move  a  step. 

**  Den  he  cums  down  a  little  with  his  voice,  and  putting 
bis  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  pulled  out  a  great  roll  of  notes ; 
and  takes  out  a  clean,  new  one — it  looked  monsu»  big,  liko 
It  mote  a  bin  a  hundred  dollais— and  he  aaid: 


146 


09V    WITH    THB    OliX)    LOVS. 


Uf 


'  Here,  take  my  message  to  Miss  Lola,  and  yott  shall 
has  dis/  « 

"  Hi,  honey,  dat  man  thought  he  had  me  den.  1  did 
want  de  money,  but  I  wasn't  gwine  to  be  caugJU  in  a  Ua 
for  nuffin  he  could  gim  me.    So  I  said : 

"  *  Don't  know  whar  to  find  her  I    She's  out.* 

"*  It's  a  lie  1' he  hollered. 

"  *  Den  it  tain't  none  of  mine,'  I  said.  I  was  gittin'  tired 
of  standing  dere,  foolin'  my  time  with  him ;  and  maybe 
de  turkey  mote  be  burning.  So  I  started  to  go  out,  when 
he  WU3  than  hollered  out : 

'''Come  back  I* 

"  De  lor's  1  I  come,  like  one  of  dese  ingun  rubber  balls, 
bounced  like. 

** '  I  shall  remain  until  I  see  Miss  Hartly,'  he  said,  settin' 
his  teeth  tight. 

"  Den  I  thought  how  it  was  Taout  time  for  Mister  Reggie 
to  be  comin'.  I  knowed  I'd  better  get  the  gineral  off  'fore 
he  'rived.    So  I  says : 

"  * '  Tain't  wuff  while  for  you  to  waste  your  time.  She 
said  she  wasn't  in,  and  I  jest  be  willin'  to  swear  she'll  keep 
sayin'  it  long  as  you  stays.    So  dar  I ' 

"*Gol  Find  her,  and  say  I  mmt  see  her,  for  five 
minutes  only,'  he  said,  kinder  a  pleadin'-like. 

"'Gineral,  I  can*i  leave  dis  house.  I'se  gettin'  de 
dinner,'  I  said,  goin'  back  to  my  fust  lie. 

"  Den  he  come  up  to  me,  jess  takin'  'bout  two  steps  to 
get  clare  'cross  dat  big  room,  to  whar  I  stood  by  de  door ; 
and  what  he  might  hab  done  to  me,  I  don't  know.  He 
looked  awf;:;x  dangeous,  with  his  eyes  lookin'  jes  like  fire^ 
and  his  false  teeth  shining,  jest  like  a  tiger's,  I  reckon,  I 
never  seed  one,  dough.  I  thought  he  was  gwine  to  commit 
Buetside  on  me.  But,  thank  the  bressed  Lord,  jest  at  e^f 
ttinit  Mister  Biggie  rung  de  bell;  and  oomes  in,  zite  afisft 


OFF    WITH    THE    OLD    LOVE. 


147 


***  Where  is  Miss  Lola,  Patsey?'  he  said.  And,  breai 
you,  honey,  Gineral  Boyd  answered,  'fore  I  could  get  Q3J 
breff  after  de  scare  he  gib  me. 

"  *  Miss  Hartly  is  not  in.  I  have  bin  waitin'  considerbel 
time.  It  seems  she  is  not  expected  to  return  to-day,'  he  said, 
lookin'  at  me,  with  a  awful  spiteful  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Coarse,  you  know,  ef  she  wasn't  out,  as  he  knowed  she 
"v^n't,  how  could  she  be  'spected  back? 

"  So  Mister  Reggie  said : 

"*Isithatso,  Patsey?* 

"  My  marster !  I  nebber  was  in  sich  a  scrape  aforew 

"  I  knowed  Miss  Lola  would  ^most  kill  me  ef  I  let  de  ons 
she  wanted  to  see  go;  and  I  didnH  know  but  how  da 
gineral  would  'hole  kill  me;  and  maybe  massacree  all 
three  of  us,  and  himself  too.  So  I  'termined  to  take  my 
chance  with  Miss  Lola,  and  I  said : 

"  *  Dat's  so.    She  ain't  'spected  home  to-day.' 

"  Lor',  den  he  was  up  1  mad  as  a  March  hare,  and  said, 
wid  an  awful  black  look : 

" '  Say  to  Miss  Lola,  I  had  only  an  hour  on  shore.  Da 
vessel  sails  dis  artemoon.'  So  he  went;  off  sure!  I 
thought  of  running  after  him.  But,  honey,  dat  man  gim 
me  one  look — it  was  nuflf  for  me.  'Deed,  I  believe  he  had 
jes  as  leef  kill  me  den,  as  eat.  I  stayed  where  I  was. 
Down  he  sot  I  smelt  dat  turkey  burnin',  and  started 
agin  for  de  door. 

**  ^Remain  I '  he  yelled,  like  a  Ingun.  So  den,  I  stayed  agin. 
And  he  sot  himself  down,  and  stayed  too.  Both  stayed. 
It  was  getten  dinner-time  fast ;  and  I  'spected  every  minit 
to  hear  de  folks  comirA  All  de  men  folks  was  away  to 
der  offices ;  and  de  gineral  knowed  it,  or  I  don't  believe  he 
would  have  acted  so. 

"  I  was  awful  oneasy  'bout  dinner.  So  I  l^iought  majfbe 
I  oonld  )peal  to  his  heart;  so  I  says: 


148 


OPP    WITH    THE    OLD    LOVX* 


II  i 


*'  *  Smell  do  turkey,  gineral  ?    It's  bumin',  eartln  f ' 

"  Not  ono  word  did  he  say  ;  jes  gim  me  another  loolb 
Den  I  sot  myself  down,  'termined  to  take  it  easy,  and  let 
Miss  Lola  take  de  consequinces.  Well,  honey,  jest  as  do 
clock  struck  three  he  got  up,  and  says : 

" '  I  thinlc  it  probabil  dat  vessel  has  leff  by  dis  time,  and 
now  JVZ  Iceve  you.  Say  to  Miss  Hartly,  the  time  may 
come  when  I  shill  find  her,  if  not  home,  elsewhere.  And 
I  shill  find  dat  one  she  wanted  to  see.  Dar  is  one  man  too 
many  in.  dis  world,  ]es  now.'  And,  lookin'  like  a  thunder 
gust,  ho  went  out,  and  slamed  de  door  arter  him. 

"  Den  /  went  to  de  turkey ;  it  was  blacker  den  de  cook. 
Tore  I  gits  it  on  de  dish,  Miss  Lola  come  down.  Lor',  I 
had  de  cannon's  mouf  pinted  'fore  me  for  two  hours,  so  I 
wasn't  so  bad  scared  when  Miss  Lola  come  like  a  bundle 
of  firecrackers.  How  she  did  snap,  and  go  for  me  I  Den 
she  cried,  'cause  she  didn't  see  de  one  she  wanted  to.  Den 
she  flew  at  me  agin ;  callin'  me  ehery  name  but  a  lady,  and 
ebery  color  but  white.  Den  she  dropped  down,  'most  tired 
to  deaf. 

"  Den  I  told  what  the  gineral  said,  'bout  bein'  one  man 
too  many.  And  den  she  begun  agin.  I  tried  to  quiet  her 
by  sayin'  Mister  Reggie  would  be  off  to  sea,  and  de  gineral 
couldn't  get  at  him ;  and  maybe,  by  de  time  he  got  home 
agin,  de  gineral  would  be  out  of  de  way — ^meaning  in  de 
next  world. 

"  ^liss  Lola  didn't  feel  no  better  'bout  it ;  and  heap  wuss 
when  her  aunt  said : 

"'And  it  will  sarve  you  jest  right  if  Reggie  finds  some 
one  else  to  gib  his  heart  to  'fore  dat  time.  Sailor  boys  ain't 
not  givin  to  keepin'  to  cne  lub  long.* 

"  Den  she  cried  agin,  and  agin.  Well,  dat  evenin'  she 
leff,  and  went  down  to  her  sister's ;  and  she's  feared  to 
come  back.  Gineral  Boyd  is  prowlin*  around,  watchia* 
for  hBt\  so  my  ote  man  taya. 


OFF   WITH    THB    OLD    LOVE. 


149 


**Lor',  I  must  run  now  to  de  dough.  'Spects  it's  leff  d^ 
pans.  Cat's  doin'  better  den  dat  turkey  did.  Wisli  da* 
had  lefF  de  oven  1 

"  Dar's  de  bell.  I  knows  Mr.  Heywood's  ring.  Whaf 
mus'  I  say  ?    Any  words  but  *  not  in,'  Miss  Hilda." 

•'  Never  mind,  Patsey,  I  will  go  see  him  myself.  I  will 
end  this  flirtation  the  best  way  I  can.  I  knoAV  it  is  very 
wrong,  and  I  am  quite  tired  of  it.  So,  Patsey,  I  will  not 
tell  even  a  white  lie."  # 

"  Dat's  so,  Miss  Hilda.  1  didn't  tell  none,  neither.  I 
only  ^peated  it.  So  it  was  no  colored  lie,  either ;  'cause  it 
wasn't  mine." 

"Well,  Patsey,  ask  Mr.  Heywood  in.  Perhaps,  as  he  is 
not  an  old  lover,  we  shall  not  have  quit^  so  hard  a  time 
getting  rid  of  him.  At  jiny  rate,  in  the;  future,  I  will  try 
to  be  honest  and  true." 


LIFTING  HIS  BURDEN. 


( I 


BT  FBANCES  nSKBHAUT  BADBV. 

r'O  young  girls  were  seated  in  a  bay-window,  on  ont 
of  the  most  fashionable  streets  in  P ^  evidently 

watching  the  coming  of  some  one. 

"  Now  look,  Flory !  He  is  coming  on  the  opposite  side. 
You  cannot  mistake.  He  is  the  finest-looking  man  that 
hps  passed  since  we  have  been  here.  Now,  directly 
opposite.    Who  can  he  be  ?    I'd  give  a  jewel  to  know  1 " 

"Really,  Irene  1" 

"  Really  aiid  truly.  Tell  me  his  name,  his  fame,  and 
introduce  me,  and  either  ring  on  my  fingers  now,  or  this 
locket  is  youts,"  Irene  Grainger  said,  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Well,  the  first  two  I  can  immediately.  The  last  is 
more  difficult  Still,  we  can  manage  it,  I  think.  But, 
Rena,  pet,  tell,  me  why  it  is  that  you,  who  never  yet  have 
felt  Cupid's  dart,  and  have  sent  off  a  dozen  of  despairing 
lovers,  why  are  you  interested  in  this  stranger?" 

"  Flory,  I'm  not  so  sure  he  is  a  perfect  stranger.  Hii 
face  haunts  me  day  and  night.  Then,  I  have  watched 
him  passing  here  for  wecke,  indeed  months.  I  have 
gotten  so  used  to  seeing  him,  I  am  disappointed  if,  at  the 
accustomed  hour,  he  comes  not.  You  must  admit  he  is  a 
splendid-looking  man.    You  rarely  see  one  his  equaL** 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  have  danced  with  him  a  dozsa 
times  and  more — stop,  before  you  went  to  Kwpe  it  wa»— 
y»g,  quite  ten  years  aijp.    Again,  you  lia?9  Iman  to  W/i 


LliPTIVO    BIS   BUBDSJI. 


m 


His 

tched 
hav« 
at  the 
leis  a 

dozen 
wan- 
to  Ui 


home  IiBM  than  six  months  ago;  and,  to  finifih  the  Chap> 
ter,  his  sisters  were  at  your  last  party." 

"  No !    Oh,  d»  not  keep  me  in  suspense  I    Who  is  he  ?  " 

"HughCarlyle." 

"  No ;  impossible  I  I  remember  the  little  lad  perfectly, 
at  dancing  school.  Oh,  how  very,  very  much  he  has 
improved  I  But,  why,  Flory,  has  he  never  called  ?  Why 
was  he  not  at  my  party  ?  1  left  his  invitation.  And  why 
have  I  not  seen  him  in  his  home  ?  " 

"  One  answer,  my  dear  Rena,  will  do  for  cM  your  ques- 
tions :  his  mother  and  three  sisters  are  entirely  dependent 
on  him.  That  is  the  reason  he  has  to  forego  all  such 
pleasures." 

"  Now,  Flory,  it  would  cost  nothing  to  call  and  see  a 
friend,  at  any  rate,  or  look  in  on  one  while  visiting  his 
sister." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  mlgfit  cost  a  great  deal  of  hearl-achs. 
Now,  Rena,  I'll  tell  you.  His  mother  told  me  in  confi- 
dence; here  it  is.  Hugh  does  not  go  in  young  ladies* 
society,  because  he  haa  no  hope  of  being  able  to  marry  for 
years,  liever.  Should  he  visit  them,  his  heart  is  not  iron- 
clad, he  might  grow  to  love,  and  possibly  win  a  return 
from  some  fair  maiden." 

"  Well,  that  would  not  be  very  dreadful,  F.'ory." 

"WfcU,  what  then?" 

"  Why,  try  to  win  the  girl,  and  marry  her,  of  course.* 

"Rena,  it  is  with  only  the  severest  economy  he  can 
support  his  loved  ones.    How  could  he  a  larger  family  ?  " 

"  Few  men  would  think  of  that.  What  a  grand  fellow 
he  must  be  I  And  what  a  great  sacrifice  he  makes 
fiar  those  dear  to  him  I  Oh,  I  loiah  I  knew  him  1  If  I 
wdy^  only  could  lift  that  heav^  burden  firom  his  yoimg 
liifel    What  can  I  do/" 

«$rothiag,dear^ 


152 


lilPTING    HIS    BURDBlff, 


"Yes,  I  will.  And  ^herc  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way; 
and  I  will  find  it.  Here  is  your  ring.  But,  remembeii 
you  are  to  help  me  when  I  ask  it." 

"Willingly.  But  what  is  it?  Your  face  is  perfectly 
radiant." 

"  Oh !  I've  hit  it  I  "  exclaimed  the  merry  girl ;  springing 
up,  she  danced  and  clapped  her  hands,  as  a  gleeful 
child  might. 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me  yet,  Flory,  love.  Just  touch  that 
bell.  I  will  tell  you  just  this  much — as  sure  as  I  live, 
within  the  next  six  months,  Hugh  Carlyle  shall  be 
entirely  relieved  from  his  burden,  and  be  a  free  man,  to 
do  as  he  pleases." 

'    "Did  you  ring.  Miss  Grainger?"  asked  a  man-servant» 
entering  the  drawing-room. 

"  Yes,  Robert ;  I  want  you  to  ask  Mrs.  Baker  to  coma 
here." 

In  a  few  moments  after  a  bright,  pleasant-lookinig 
woman  entered,  and  Irene  ask^d : 

"Mrs.  Baker,  what  does  my  uncle  pay  you  for  making 
the  lightest  bread,  muffins  and  cake;  the  best  coffee,  tea 
and  chocolate ;  broiling  his  steaks,  and,  in  a  word,  doing 
everything  to  perfection,  and  making  him  generally  cou^ 
fortable?" 

"  Twenty  dollars  a  month,  miss.** 

"  Very  well.  Now,  pay  particular  attention,  pleaBe^  I 
wiU  give  you  forty  to  give  us,  for  one  month,  the  heaviest 
bread  and  cake;  the  poorest  tea,  coffee  and  chocolate;  to 
dry,  or  burn,  all  meats,  game  and  fowl,  and  to  make  08 
generally  uncomfortable.  And  mure,  be  sure  to  give  Qs 
breakfast  an  hour  early,  dinner  an  hour  late.  Unole  hatfiB 
to  get  up  sooner  than  hia  regular  hour,  and  goes  in  a  za,gi 
when  dinner  i^  not  served  at  six." 

"  Oh  I  miss,  how  can  I  ?  How  dare  I  ?  **  the  aatoniihed 
Tfc^xaik  began,  to  be  stouDed  bv  Irene,  saying: 


LIFTIKQ    BIS    BUBDBV; 


16S 


to 

tlB 

kte« 


**Dear  Mrs.  Baker,  it  is  for  my  uncle's  ultimate  good. 
I  will  defend  yea  from  any  serious  consequence — stand 
all  the  damages.  And — yes — give  you  the  dress  you 
hinted  for  so  outrageously  this  moruing.  la  it  a  bar- 
gain?" 

"  Yes,  miss.    Of  course,  you  always  vdll  have  your  way." 

"All  right;  that  v/ill  do.  Do  not  look  so  wildly.  Yoa 
will  know  all  about  it  in  good  time." 

When  the  door  closed  after  tho  bewildered  housekeeper, 
Flory  exclaimed : 

"  Irene  Grainger,  are  you  crazy?  Wliat  are  you  up  to?" 

"Come  to  tea  with  us  two  weeks  from  to-day  and  I'll 
let  vou  peep  into  the  future,"  Irene  said,  with  a  merry 
twinkle  in  her  eye. 

At  the  desired  time  Flory  was  seated  zi  the  tea-table 
with  Irene  and  her  uncle — an  old  bachelor — with  whom 
the  merry  girl  had  lived  since  the  death  of  her  lather,  five 
years  before  the  time  of  our  story. 

Uncle  John  was  the  brother  of  Irene's  father.  Long  ago 
he  had  retired  from  business  life,  satisfied  that  a  millioa 
and  a  half  would  last  him  the  remainder  of  his  days  and 
leave  his  niece  a  pleasant  little  remembrance.  Irene  poe» 
eessing  in  her  own  right  five  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
was  of  course  a  star  of  great  magnitude  ii<  fashionable 
society. 

As  uncle  John  drew  his  ciiair  closer,  ho  glanced  anx- 
iously over  the  table.  With  a  grunt  of  dissatisfaction,  h« 
eaid: 

"  Irene,  my  dear,  I  do  not  know  how  you  had  the  cour- 
age to  bring  your  friend  to  tea.  Why  did  you  not  send  an 
order  to  Taylor's?  Florence,  my  dear,  we  have  not  had  a 
decently  cooked  meal  for  two  weeks.  1  dont  know  what 
the  thander  has  gotten  into  Bakac  Bhe  iiaed  to  tie  toe 
unat  adxuirabio  Qooki* 


IM 


LIFTXVO   B18   BUBDBV. 


Hoxence  glanced  comically  at  Irene,  who  eaid,  d) 
taurely: 

**  Uncle,  it  is  a  general  complaint  now.  And  you  knoj 
I  understand  nothing  about  such  things.  But  I  fanq 
Baker  is  thinking  about  getting  married ;  and  you  knon 
when  a  body  is  in  love  they  are  not  responsible. 

"  Flory,  my  dear,  take  a  muffin." 

"DonH  I "  exclaimed  uncle  John,  who  had  just  broktf 
one  on  his  plate.  "Don%  my  dear  I  Confusion  1  I'd  n 
more  eat  that  than  take  a  dose  of  strychnine!  Robe«l 
remove  these  dishes,  eVery  one  I  Then  go  to  Taylor's  ani 
have  them  send  up  supper  for  three  as  soon  as  possiblo  I 
I  will  not  stand  this  another  day  1  I  shall  die  of  dyspep,« 
da  I  I'll  break  up  housekeeping — go  to  boarding — I  will  f 
111  do  something  desperate  1 "  And  uncle  John  brought 
his  fist  with  such  force  on  the  table  as  to  make  the  dell* 
cate  Sevres  china  shake  and  tremble. 

"Uncle,  suppose  you  try  matrimony  I"  Irene  said,  d©» 
murely. 

"  What?  "  snapped  uncle  John. 

"Get  manied  yourself.  Then  you  will  have  a  hou8»« 
keeper  who  will  take  an  interest  in  your  establishment 
aLd  in  making  you  generally  happy,"  Irene  said  in  so 
earnest  a  tone  that  her  uncle  replied ; 

"Upon  my  word,  one  would  suppose  you  in  earnest, 
child  I" 

"  I  never  was  more  so  in  my  life,  uncle.  I  think  it  quiU 
time  your  life  should  have  some  recompense.  All  these 
years  you  have  been  making  others  happy.  Now  it's  time 
some  one  was  making  you  so." 

"  Now,  child,  who  do  you  suppose  would  have  me — a 
cruswy  old  bachelor  of  sixty-five  ?  " 

"I  would,"  Flory  answered,  quickly,  "if  I  had  not 
olfs^  promised  somebody  else.    You  are  not  old  nor 


tilFTmra    his    fiUBDEK. 


155 


crusty ;  and  you  are  handsomer  now  than  half  the  men 
of  thirty-five  1" 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  uncle  John  said,  with  a  pleased 
ixpression.  "  I  am  sorry,  but  so  it  was  before.  The  only 
)ime  I  would  have  married  I  was  '  too  late.'  Ah,  me !  I 
should  have  been  a  different  man  had  I  won  her.  I  saw  a 
Ijttle  girl  here  a  few  months  ago  that  reminded  me  strongly 
of  sweet  Annie  Warren." 

"Who  was  it,  uncle?"  asked  Irene. 

"  I  do  not  know  her  name.  If  I  heard  I  have  forgotten. 
A  little  one  with  soft  brown  hair  and  dove-like  eyes.  But 
look  here,  Irene.  Suppose  I  should  take  you  at  your 
word." 

"Well,  uncle?" 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I  imagine  it  would  damage  yotur  pros- 
pects very  much." 

"  What  do  I  care  for  that  I  Never  mix.  1  mc,  undo.  Be 
happy  and  you  will  satisfy  me.  Say,  Fiory,  as  iloag  aa 
you  cannot  have  uncle,  can  you  recommend  hin.  .o  some 
dear,  sweet,  pretty,  smart,  intelligent,  refined  womaa,  of 
somewhere  between  forty  and  fifty  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  moment !  I  want  to  add  a  word !  With  no 
young  children  to  divide  her  care  with  me.  If  she  has 
children  they  must  be  grown  up"  uncle  John  said. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  afraid  I  do  not.  Such  a  one  is  hard  to 
find,  I  imagine,"  Florence  said.  But  a  decided  pressure 
of  Irene's  little  foot  on  hers  must  have  brightened  her 
wits,  for  she  added,  quickly : 

"  Oh,  yes,  1  do  I  Just  such  a  one!  I  had  forgotten 
Mrs.  Carlyle!" 

"  Carlyle  I "  exclaimed  uncle  John.  "  What  is  her  first 
name  ?    Where  is  she  from  ?  " 

**  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  imagine  she  has  always  liyed  in 
/'  Florenoe  answered.. 


186 


LIFTIirO    flIS    BVBDEir. 


"Ah,  yes !  Of  course  she  cannot  be  the  samd  I  Them 
are  hundreds  of  that  name  here.  But  tell  me  more  of  her, 
and  how  I  am  to  find  her." 

"I  will  tell  you,  uncle.  She  is  in  every  way  lovely. 
She  has  a  son  and  three  grown  daughters.  The  son  is  a 
book-keeper,  and  supports  his  mother  and  sisters.  They 
live  just  as  cosily  and  as  comfortable  as  can  be,  so  you 
Inovj  she  must  be  an  excellent  manager.  You  can  Bee 
her;  then,  if  you  do  not  lancy  her,  you  can  look  fur- 
ther." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  see  her?  That  is  the  point  of  con- 
sideration now  I " 

"Let  me  think.  Ill  find  away.  Wait,  Flory;  dont 
eay  a  word  yet."  And  Irene's  little  hand  covered  her 
eyes.  Her  head  was  bowed  in  deep  thought  a  fe^ 
moments.    Then  she  cried  out,  triumphantly; 

"  I  have  it !  Uncle,  you  said  yesterday  you  were  think- 
ing of  purchasing  that  property  on  Mason  street,  and  you 
were  going  to  have  the  title  examined." 

"  Yes.  But  what  the  thunder  has  this  to  do  with  the 
Widow?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  uncle,  Huj.  ^  Carlyle  has  studied  law. 
Old  Mr.  Capperton  is  out  of  town.  Get  the  widow's  son 
to  examine  the  records  for  you,  write  the  deed,  and  so  on. 
He  has  leisure  hours  occasionally,  and  just  now  business 
is  very  dull.  You  can  *  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone  '— 
see  the  mother  and  give  the  son  a  lift.  Now  call  early 
to-morrow  afternoon.  Ask  for  Mr,  Carlyle.  Of  course  he 
will  not  be  home.  Then  ask  for  Mrs.  Carl'le,  and  explain 
why  you  wish  to  see  her  eon,  and  ask  wlion  he  will  be  at 
home;  giving  yourself  excuse  for  another  speedy  calL 
Don't  you  sec?  You  can  tell  her  that  IMiss  Flory  Harper 
recommended  your  obtaining  Mr.  Carlyle's  services  while 
yoor  lawyer  wm  absent   Now  what  do  yon  think  of 


li;!' 


ttlFTING    BIS    BtTBDEir. 


m 


flMt?**  asked  Irene,  jumping  up  and  clapping  her  uncle's 
ehoulder. 

"Tip-top,  Irene  I  You  ought  to  be  Secretary  of  State; 
iupervisor  of  'ways  and  means'  for  the  whole  United 
States  1    I  will  do  it,  by  Jove  I  " 

"And  I  will  call  for  you  when  Flory  and  I  return  from 
our  drive  to-morrow  afternoon  I  Ah  I  hero  is  our  supper  I 
Oh,  how  delicious  it  looks  I  Uncle,  what  did  you  say  this 
morning  about  cooks  ?  "  Irene  asked,  mischievously. 

"I  said  'the  Lord  sends  the  food  and  the  devil  the 
cooks ' — that  is,  the  latter  generally,  but  not  the  one  that 
got  up  this  supper  I " 

The  next  afternoon,  agreeable  to  arrangement,  uncle 
John  presented  himself  at  Mrs.  Carlyle's.  Irene,  thinking 
an  hour  quite  long  enough  for  a  first  call,  ordered  the 
driver  to  stop  by,  according  to  promise. 

Imagine  her  surprise  when,  in  answer  to  the  bell,  cama 
ier  uncle,  with  a  perfectly  beaming  face,  and  called : 

**  Come,  girls,  come  in  1    1  am  not  ready  to  go  yet/ " 

"  'Pon  my  word,  Rena,  your  plan  is  working  admirable. 
The  old  gentleman  seems  very  much  at  home  I  Do  let  ua 
go  in  and  see  how  affairs  are  progressing,"  said  Flory. 

Uncle  John,  in  the  meantime,  has  returned  to  the  parlor. 
On  the  girls'  entry,  he  jumped  up  from  Mrs.  Carlyle's  side, 
and  catching  Irene  in  his  arms,  exclaimed : 

"  Bless  your  dear  little  heart  I  You  may  go  right  off  and 
get  that  set  of  diamonds  you  were  teasing  for  I  Do  you 
know  what  you  have  done  ?    Just  made  me  the  happiest 

fellow  in  P .    Here,  child,  this  is  Annie  "Warren  you 

bave  heard  me  speak  of.  And  that  was  her  daughter  I  saw 
at  your  party.  I  have  told  her  the  truth,  the  ivhole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth.  And  there  is  no  need  of  my 
having  an  excuse  to  call  again.    I  am  to  como  wbeo  I 


158 


LIFTIKO    BIS    BUBDEZr. 


"  I  must  thank  you,  Miss  Grainger,  for  yourrerir  flattering 
opinion  of  me,"  Mrs.  Carlyle  said,  a  bright  flush  mantling 
her  still  beautiful  face. 

"  Please  don't — nor  call  me  Miss  Grainger.  To  you  I 
must  be  Irene  only,  now.  Uncle,  if  yju  are  tolreturn  this 
evening,  I  guess  I  can  take  you  away  now." 

"All  right  I  Annie,  you  don't  know  Avhat  a  little  tyrant 
she  is.  Never  mind,  miss,  your  reign  will  soon  be  over  1 " 
uncle  said,  with  a  merry  chuckle. 

Irene  and  Flory,  after  bidding  good-by,  hurried  out,  th« 
former  saying,  with  a  merry  little  laugh, 

"  We  must  let  the  young  lover  have  a  private  fareweH- 
taking." 

When  uncle  John  was  seated  beside  Irene  she  asked : 

"  Well,  what  about  the  business? — the  deed  and  necessary 
papers  ?  " 

"Well,  my  dear,  the  business  is  attended  to,  to  my 
perfect  satisfaction.  The  deed  is  done.  The  papers  will  bi 
attended  to  this  day  one  month  " 

"What!  What  are  you  talking  about?  You  did  not 
Bee  Mr.  Carlyle.  And  it  was  just  impossible  to  write  a 
deed  in  that  time,  I  know  that  much  1 "  Irene  said,  with  a 
bewildered  look  in  her  bright  eyes. 

"Nevertheless  'tis  so.  I  explained  my  real  business. 
She  was  willing.  The  deed  is  my  engagement  to  the  only 
woman  I  ever  loved — my  marriage  to  take  place  the  tenth 
of  next  month.    Now,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  " 

"That  you  are  certainly  the  fastest  man  of  the  time, 
and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  court  a  woman 
the  very  first  call — " 

"Ah,  my  dear,  I  remembered  when  I  was  too  alow.  And 
I  was  determined  not  to  be  too  late  this  time ! " 

"  There,  uncle,  there  is  my  hand  1  You  are  a  man  after 
my  own  heart.  I  hope  you  will  live  to  be  a  hundred,  and 
as  happy  as  that  dear  Uttlewoman  can  make  yoxJ* 


LZFTZNO    HIB    BURDSST. 


IS) 


"  Well,  my  dear,  the  ways  of  Providence  aie  wonderftiL 
Who  would  have  dreamed  Baker's  miserable  cooking 
would  have  ended  in  so  much  happiness  ?  I  expected  it 
would  have  ended  in  killing  me  rather.  Shall  we  stop  by, 
and  order  supper  from  Taylor's  ?  " 

"  No,  uncle,  I  feel  as  if  Mrs.  Baker  would  do  better  now. 
I  will  speak  to  her  when  we  get  in,"  Irene  answered,  with 
a  flly  twinkle  in  her  eye,  as  she  looked  at  Flory. 

A  short  time  after,  Irene  had  an  interview  with  Mrs. 
Baker,  which  resulted  in  that  worthy  woman  being  released 
from  the  contract  which  had  been  so  \>,ry  trying  to  her. 
Irene  paid  the  promised  twenty  dollars,  and  divulged  part 
of  the  little  plot  to  her  faithful  ally — this  much,  bet  undt's 
•peedy  marriage. 

There  was  a  quiet  little  wedding  at  Mrs.  Carlyla'a,  nftor 
which  the  happy  pair  left  for  the  wedding  tour. 

Irene  whispered,  as  the  carriage  bore  them  away : 

"  Six  weeks,  Flory,  instead  of  six  months,  and  you  find 
Hugh  Carlyle  a  free  man." 

"  How  long  he  shall  remain  so,  is  a  subject  you  will  take 
into  consideration  next,  if  I  mistake  not,  and  then  I  am 
going  to  turn  '  state's  evidence,' "  Flory  said,  laughingly. 

Uncle  John,  very  grateful  to  Irene  for  his  great  happiness, 
(bought  one  good  turn  deserved  another,  so  he  went  to 
work  to  try  match-making.  Hugh  no  longer  thought  it 
necessary  to  keep  out  of  ladies'  society,  so  he  gave  himself 
up,  with  a  good  will,  to  the  enjoyment  he  had  been  eo  long 
denied. 

Uncle  John  constantly  was  making  some  plan  to  bring 
Hugh  and  Irene  together.  Tickets  for  the  opera,  theatre, 
and  concerts,  were  continually  placed  in  Hugh's  hand, 
and  he  would  say : 

"  Do,  my  dear  boy,  take  that  girl  off  my  l^mda." 

And  on  one  occasion,  he  added: 


WD 


LXyTIirO    HIS    BUBDEN. 


U 


*  I  declare,  Rena,  yon  will  have  to  get  a  yonngcr  fell<>w 
to  trot  'round  now.  Besides,  I've  got  another  little  woman 
to  look  after." 

Then  Hugh,  who  had  grown  light-hearted  and  merry 
since  the  weight  of  care  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart, 
answered : 

"And  since  a  little  woman  that  once  belonged  to  me  has 
robbed  Miss  Grainger  of  her  escort,  it  should  be  my  duty 
and  privilege  to  make  up  for  the  loss  as  much  aa 
possible." 

And  so  the  young  people  were  very  much  together. 
But,  after  a  while,  there  came  a  change  over  Hugh.  He 
grew  gloomy  and  despondent. 

■  Irene  had  but  little  doubt  of  the  cause.  She  felt  well 
assured  of  Hugh's  love ;  every  look,  every  action  speaking 
what  the  lips  dared  not  breathe  forth.  So  she  determined 
again  to  lighten  his  heart. 

"  Hugh,  what  troubles  you  ?  For  weeks  I  have  not  seen 
a  smile  wreathe  your  lips.  You  ought  to  be  happy  when 
every  one  around  you  is  so.  Do  tell  me  what  it  is?" 
Irene  plead. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  a  story  you  would  like  to 
hear,"  Hugh  answered,  lifting  his  eyes  searchingly  to 
hers. 

"  Then,  from  this  moment,  be  perfectly  sure  that  eDery- 
thing  concerning  your  happiness  is  of  deep  interest  to  me," 
Irene  answered.  And  I  am  afraid  this  was  very  much  like 
doing  a  little  of  the  courting  herself;  in  fact,  rather  forcing 
the  question. 

Hugh  left  her  side  a  moment,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
He  must  escape  from  the  weakness  coming  over  him. 
How  dare  he  speak  of  love  to  her  ?  He  without  a  dollar 
ahead  in  the  world,  and  she  the  possessor  of  immense 
wealth.    No,  he  woul^  leave  her  presence  with  bis  secxet 


LIFTIKO    HIS    BUBDEB*. 


let 


still  his  own.  He  had  resolved  this  when  the  persistent 
little  witch  called : 

"  Hugh  1 » 

Alas  for  resolves  I    He  was  by  her  side  in  an  instant 

"  I  am  waiting,"  she  said. 

"  Miss  Grainger,  if  a  man  was  blind  or  mad  Enough  to 
love  one  far  above  him — " 

"  Stop,  please  I  If  he  is  honorable  and  true,  how  can 
she  be  above  him  ?  "  Irene  asked. 

"  The  world  would  say  so.  He  is  poor,  and  she  wealthy. 
Such  being  the  case,  dare  he  speak  his  love  ?  "  His  voice 
was  full  of  emotion ;  his  beautiful  eyes  eagerly  striving  to 
read  hers. 

"  Yes.  If  she  is  a  true  woman,  his  dear  love  would  be 
more  to  her  than  all  the  gold  that  earth  can  give,"  Irene 
answered,  her  face  crimsoning  as  she  dropped  her  eyea 
from  his  ardent  gaze. 

"  Miss  Grainger — Irene — wovld  it  be  to  youf" 

Irene's  eyes  were  raised  to  his,  then,  full  of  truth  and 
love.  Hugh  needed  no  other  answer.  As  he  drew  her 
closer,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  beautiful  blushing  cheeky 
he  said : 

"Oh,  my  darling,  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  those 
merry  days  of  dancing-school." 

"And  I  you,  Hugh,  since  you  began  to  pass  here  every 
day.  But  I  do  think  you  might  have  told  me  long  ago, 
and  not  obliged  me  to  do  more  than  my  share  of  the 
courting,  and  actually  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  pro- 
pose 1 "  Irene  said,  with  a  bewitching  little  frown  that  was 
more  than  half  a  smile. 

Just  then,  a  little  tap  at  the  door  preceded  Flory'f 
entrance.  With  one  glance  she  took  in  the  situation,  and 
cried  merrily : 

^Now  la   my  time   to  turn  'stats's  evidence/  8f  X 


162 


LIFTING    HIS    BUBDEBft 


threatened  Idtig  ago.  Hugh,  my  dear  friend,  you  hat* 
been  entrapped,  so  was  your  dear  mother  before  you. 
Now  listen,  for 

"  *  I've  something  sweet  to  tell  you,* " j 

sang  the  merry  girl. 

So  she  did  tell,  from  that  day  at  the  window  straight 
along,  the  whole  story,  notwithstanding  Irene's  frequent 
attempts  to  stop  her. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling,  for  this  happy  day,  and 
grant  me  the  power  of  making  you  as  happy  as  you 
deserve,"  Hugh  murmured  low,  when  Flory  had  stopped 
her  teasing  and  turned  away. 

Uncle  John  insisted  on  Hugh's  resigning  his  position  as 
book-keeper,  and  open  a  law  office.  So  he  did,  and  the 
kind  old  gentleman  is  giving  him  business  sufficient  to 
bring  him  quite  a  handsome  income. 

A  few  months  after,  there  was  a  double  wedding  at 
Trinity  Church.  Uncle  John  gave  the  brides  away ;  and 
iMver  lovelier  or  happier  brides  than  Irene  and  Flory  ever 
wore  the  wedding-ring. 


A  SEVERE  LESSON. 


i 
d 

IS 

le 
to 

ai 
ad 
rsr 


•  7  VBANOBS  HEN8BAW  BADXM. 

SHE  had  such  a  sweet,  fair  face,  with  an  expression  of 
perfect  candor  and  truth,  that  it  would  seem  impo** 
•ible  to  doubt  her.     Yet  George  Peyton  did,  and  said: 

"  It  is  difficult  not  to  believe  one's  own  eyes,  Fannie.  I 
■aw  you  walking  with  him,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  listen- 
iifg  with  unmistakable  pleasure  to  his  words.  Can  you 
deny  this  ?" 

"  No,  I  cannot  But  a  girl  can  walk  with  a  gentleman, 
and  listen  with  pleasure  to  his  words — " 

"  Not  without  being  careless,  to  say  the  least,  of  others' 
feelings.  And  if  so,  then  false  to  one  that  she  has  prom* 
ised  to  love  only,  of  all  the  world — " 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  to  me  ?  How  can  you  doubt  mo, 
George  t  Again  I  tell  you  that  Edgar  Mowbray  cares  not 
for  me.  There  is  another  girl  in  this  house  to  love  besides 
me.     You  forget  Annie  is  no  longer  a  child." 

"  Enough,  Fq^nnie.  Promise  me  you  will  see  him  no 
more,  and  I  will  believe  you." 

"Why,  George,  I  cannot  do  that.  How  '^j'".  I  avoid 
seeing  him,  when  uncle  and  aunt  receive  him,  and  think 
BO  much  of  him  ?  Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Excuse  me,  Miss  Melton.  That  you  have  no  regard 
for  my  wishes  is  sufficient  to  prove  to  me  the  truth  of  my 
surmises.  Allow  me  to  wish  you  much  happiness,  and 
good-evening." 


UA 


A    BEVKBB    LESSOB-. 


|!|il> 


And  the  miserable,  jealous  man  turned  and  left  !F^Inl^a^ 
"trho  stood  as  if  she  was  not  perfectly  sure  that  she  was 
not  just  awakened  from  a  frightful  dream. 

"  Well,  I  knew  he  was  jealous :  but  never  dreamed  him 
80  frightfully  unreasonable.  I  will  write  and  explain  it 
all  to  him  to-night.  Poor  fellow  1  he  is  miserable  enough," 
thought  Fannie.  But  after  a  little  a  second  thought  came. 
Pride  whispered,  "  No,  let  him  come  back  penitent.  He 
should  have  more  confidence  in  you."  And  so  Fannie 
listened,  and  acted  on  pride's  suggestion. 

The  next  morning,  while  she  was  watphing  and  listen- 
ing to  every  step,  hoping  her  lover  would  come,  that 
young  gentleman  had  stepped  into  a  jeweller's  to  get  some 
repairs  done  to  his  watch.  While  waiting  for  it,  one  of 
the  clerks,  with  whom  George  had  some  slight  acquain- 
tance, was  giving  some  orders  relative  to  the  marking  of  a 
ring.  It  was  a  very  handsome  diamond  solitaire  which 
the  clerk  held  for  George's  inspection,  saying : 

"  I  wonder  if  this  is  an  engagement  ring?  Mowbray — 
you  know  him,  do  you  not? — purchased  it  a  little  while 
ago.  Where  did  I  put  that  slip  of  paper  with  the  initials? " 
he  asked,  looking  about  the  counter. 

"  I  have  it,"  replied  a  young  man  near;  and  continued : 
"  But  really,  I  think  you  better  not  make  a  public  thing 
of  this.  Perhaps — in  fact,  generally,  gentlemen  do  not 
care  to  have  these  little  affairs  so  freely  spoken  of." 

"Oh,  sure  enough!  You  are  right  1  I  did  notthiiiat 
Youll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Peyton.  However,  I  suppose  it  is 
a  matter  of  no  interest  to  you,''  the  gentleman  replied, 
turning  from  the  prudent  young  clerk  to  Mr.  Peyton. 

"Certainly  not,"  George  answered;  received  his  watch 
and  left  the  store,  convinced  then  that  Fannie  was  false. 
He  felt  confident  that  the  man  who  had  withheld  the 
initials  from  his  knowledge  had  some  idea  of  Jhis  former 


A    SEVERB    LESSOBT. 


166 


relation  to  the  lady,  and  consequently  his  motive  fordoing 
so.  Full  of  wrath,  ho  returned  homo,  bundled  up  Fannie's 
letters,  picture,  and  sundry  little  keepsakes,  and  sent  them 
to  her,  with  a  note  saying  that  "  Miss  Melton  would  oblige 
him  by  either  destroying  or  returning  to  his  address, 
letters  and  other  articles  which  he  had  given  her."  Then 
telling  his  mother  and  sister  he  was  going  on  pressing 
business  out  West,  packed  his  trunk  and  started. 

Reaching  his  place  of  destination,  he  found  there  a  party 
of  young  friends  who  were  about  starting  for  California. 
They  urged  and  insisted  on  his  accompanying  them. 
Glad  of  any  excuse  to  keep  him  from  home  and  divert  his 
mind,  the  reckless  fellow  agreed  to  their  proposal,  and 
went  with  them. 

In  the  meantime  Fannie  began  to  think  that  George 
Peyton  never  really  loved  her,  and  was  anxious  for  some 
plea  for  withdrawing  his  suit.  And  if  she  found  pleasure 
in  the  society  of  the  handsome  Mowbray,  and  began  to 
compare  his  candid,  noble  nature  with  George's,  in  a  very 
unfavorable  light  to  the  latter,  was  it  any  wonder  ? 

While  in  San  Francisco  George  received  a  letter  from 
his  sister,  in  which  she  wrote : 

"  Mr.  Mowbray  is  a  very  constant  visitor  at  Mr.  Melton's. 
But,  now  I  think  of  it,  he  was  before  you  left;  so  you 
know  all  about  his  hopes  and  aspirations.  She  is  a  dear, 
sweet  girl,  and  I  hope  will  be  very  happy.  Rumor  sayn 
Mr.  Melton  is  not  very  well  pleased — that  he  had  other 
views  for  her.  There  is  no  engagement  proclaimed  as  yet. 
George,  I  cannot  think  what  made  you  fly  oft'  from  us  in 
such  haste.  Somehow  I  cannot  divest  my  mind  from  the 
idea  that  Fannie  was  the  cause.  I  had  thought  she  would 
be  something  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  a  friend." 

George  threw  down  the  letter  with  an  impatient  gestuue, 
and  said  bitterly  : 
**  Yes,  Mr.  Melton  always  fBrranA  me,  and  I  beHevtt  bs 


166 


A  8BVBBB   LfiSSOV. 


r 

t 


1^1 1  • 


is  my  warm  friend.    Oh,  I  could  not  have  fhotight  ehe 

would  be  so  false.  Nothing  but  my  own  eyes,  her  words, 
and — ^well,  indeed,  everything  else — the  occurrence  in  the 
jeweller's,  and  now  Katy's  letter,  would  have  convinced 
me.    Well,  v»^ell,  I  can  never  trust  in  woman  again." 

He  felt  very  miserable,  and  longed  to  confide  his  grief 
to  some  one.  His  most  particular  friend,  Will  Austin, 
was  with  him.  George  was  very  much  attached  to  him, 
and  so  made  him  his  confidant.  Will  listened  attentively 
until  George  had  fully  reUeved  his  mind  and  heart,  and 
then  he  said : 

"  George,  I  think  you  were  very  hasty,  and  very  much 
to  blame.  And  if  the  young  lady  has  cast  you  from  her 
heart,  and  learned  to  care  for  this  Mowbray,  it  is  all  your 
own  fault.  You  were  very  imreasonable.  But,  pshaw! 
what  jealous  person  was  ever  possessed  of  any  reason  ?  •' 

His  friend's  plain  talk  did  George  good,  and  he  grew 
somewhat  reasonable  after  it.  And  his  thoughts  flew 
back  to  the  time  when  he  first  knew  Fannie ;  of  the  many 
gentlemen  who  soi^^ht  the  love  that  he  had  won;  of  the 
gentleness  wiih  which  she  bore  with  his  whims ;  how  she 
had  yielded  to  his  wishes — all  save  the  one,  which  then, 
he  felt,  had  been  very  unreasonable.  And  when  she  was 
most  likely  lost  to  him,  she  grew  dearer.  And  so  he 
resolved  to  return,  perliaps  before  it  was  too  late.  Nearly 
three  months  had  elapsed  since  he  left  home,  when  he 
determined  to  return  as  speedily  as  possible.  When  on 
the  eve  of  starting  he  received  a  letter,  in  which  Katy 
wrote: 

"In  my  last  1  gave  you  all  the  particulars  of  the 
wedding.  Mr.  Melton  seems  quite  reconciled  to  the 
happy  Mowbray.  Fannie  looika  miserable.  I  really 
believe  she  did  care  for  you.  They  have  all  gone  travel* 
tiog,  aud  intaxiA  being  absent  daring  tlie  warm  weathe:;'«" 


ISWS 


A   BBYBBB    LE880V. 


tet 


the 

the 

really 

ravel* 


The  letter  spoken  of  by  Katy  had  never  readied  Georga 
Fate  willed  it  so — and  he  was  not  sorry.  It  was  agony 
enough  to  know  she  v.as  lost  to  him,  without  reading  the 
minute  details  of  his  rival's  happiness.  Poor  fellow  I  he 
could  not  remain  content  anywhere  then.  He  travelled 
from  one  place  to  another,  endeavoring,  by  excitement 
and  constant  change  of  scene,  to  forget  Fannie.  From  the 
quiet  mountain  retreats  he  would  fly  to  some  crowded, 
fashionable  resort,  until  at  length  he  visited  Saracoga. 

The  next  morning  he  sauntered  into  the  office  and 
began  looking  over  the  new  anivals.  Several  familiar 
names,  persons  from  his  own  city,  met  his  eyes.  And 
then,  a  little  further  down  the  page,  came  those,  of  ail 
persons  in  the  world,  the  most  undesirable  for  him  to 
meet— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgar  Mowbray,  Mr.  Henry  Melton 
and  daughter. 

Hurrying  back  to  his  room,  he  detemn'ned  to  keep  out 
of  sight  until  the  next  train,  and  leave  in  that  for  hi» 
home.  He  could  not  meet  them — ^see  her  the  wife  of 
another.  He  was  not  well,  and  was  beginning  to  feel 
quite  anxious  to  get  back  to  his  mother  and  sister.  When 
the  time  came  for  the  train  to  start,  poor  George's  head 
was  aching  so  terribly  ho  couid  not  stand  up;  so,  of 
course,  he  had  to  give  up  t^c  idea  of  leaving  then,  and 
wait  until  the  next  day.  He  g^ew  worse  rapidly.  The 
morning  found  him  really  very  ill.  Some  friend,  missing 
him  all  the  previous  day,  went  to  his  room  in  search  of 
him,  and  found  the  poor  fellow  with  a  raging  fever,  and 
quite  delirious.  He  summoned  ihe  proprietor  and  his 
wife,  who  procured  the  services  of  a  physician.  Very  soon 
the  Meltons  heard  of  George  Peyton's  being  so  near  them 
and  ill.  They  were  very  attentive;  indeed,  most  of  their 
time  was  devoted  to  him.  Many  days  had  passed  before 
George 'was  out  of  danger.  Awskening  one  mommg  from 
A  refreeliiaa;  sleep,  his  mind  then  ouite  dear,  he  oaught  a 


A  SBTSRIS  lifissoir. 


glAnoe  ot  Faxmie  as  she  flitted  from  the  room.  Mr. 
Melton  remained,  and  endeavored,  in  his  kind,  genial 
way,  to  cheer  George.  The  days  of  his  convalescing 
were  many.  Indeed  he  grew  better  very  slowly. 
Annie,  her  father,  and  Mr.  Mowbray  were  constantly 
with  him ;  the  latter,  if  possible,  more  attentive  than 
the  others.  George  tried  to  feel  very  grateful,  Out  he 
could  not  feel  right  toward  him.  How  couid  he  be 
expected  to?  His  manner  was  always  reserved,  and 
really  cold.  Mowbray  felt  it,  and  one  day  he  deter- 
mined to  spe-aii  to  George  about  it.  So,  seizing  the 
first  good  opportunitj^  he  said : 

*'  Peyton,  you  try  hard  to  hide  your  feelings ;  but  I 
can  see  plain  enough  you  do  not  like  me.  And  I*d  like 
to  know  the  reason  ?  " 

George  looked  at  him,  a  world  of  reproach  in  his 
€ry*s  as  he  answered : 

'*  Mr.  Mowbray,  if  you  have  detected  my  true  feelingSj. 
I  regret  it  because  of  your  recent  kmduess.  But  this  m 
a  subject  I  would  prefer  not  conversing  upon.  1  have 
sought  to  avoid  it,  and  ehouid  tliink  the  desire  would 
be  mutual." 

"  Now,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean, 
I  only  know  you  dislike  me.  And  rcaliy,  I  should  think 
you  might  try  not  to.  a  little,  for  my  wife's  sake. 
Here  she  has  been  as  devoted  as  a  sister  to  you  ail  thb 
days  of  your  illness.  1  declan^  I'll  carry  her  off  home, 
and  leave  you  to  remorse,  ityx  don't  feel  a  little  pleas- 
anter  toward  me,  or  explain  in  what  waj'  1  have  merited 
your  aversion." 

George  thought  his  mind  was  getting  very  much 
clouded  again.  He  could  not,  to  save  him,  call  to  mind 
Fannie's  ever  being  near  him  but  the  one  time  when  he 
had  seen  lier  dart  from  tiie  room.  Then  ho  tliought, 
could  it  ho  x^aaihle  that  Mowbray  never  knew  of  iiit 


a 


A    SBTBBB   LB880V. 


169 


1X9 

)uld 


linli 


jme, 


Inucb 
Imiud 
leii  be 

|ugbt, 


eetred  him  about  it,  or  he  never  could  talk  thus  to  a 
former  lo^^er  of  his  wife's.  If  so,  Mowbray  was  In  no 
way  to  blame,  and  he  really  had  no  just  cause  to  dis- 
like him.    Putting'  oug  his  hand,  he  said  : 

"Mr.  Mowbray,  will  you  forgive  me?  I  feel  sure 
now  I  have  no  cause  to  feel  other  than  most  kisidly 
toward  you.  Please  do  not  allude  to  this  subject  again. 
And  will  you  express  my  thanks  to  Mrs.  Mowbi-uy  for 
her  kindness  ?  I  must  hn  ve  been  most  of  the  time  dur- 
ing" my  illness  quite  out  of  my  mind.  I  never  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  Mrs.  MoAvbray  but  once  in  my  room." 

Edgar  Mowbray  grasped  his  hand  warmly,  but  gave 
^  very  searching  look  at  the  invalid,  to  see  if  he  was 
c^uite  right  in  mind  then. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Edgar  Mowbray 
exclaimed : 

**  Ah,  here  she  is  now  1  Annie,  come  hero  and  talk 
to  your  charge.** 

**Here  who  is?'*  cried  Q-^orge,  wildly. 

"Annie,  my  wife,"  answered  Mowbray,  springing 
up,  and  turning  a  bowl  of  crushed  ice  into  a  towel  and 
applying  it  to  George's  head,  whispered  to  Annie : 

**  Fly  for  the  doctor!    He  is  terribly  ill  again," 

"  Say  it  again.  Annie — not  Fannie — your  wife  ?  " 
cried  George. 

"  Yes ;  Atmie  is  my  wife,  certainly.  Run  for  the 
doctor,  love."  ' 

But  little  Annie  was  wiser  than  her  husband.  She 
knew  who  would  be  the  most  successful  physician  foi 
George,  who  tnurraured  : 

"Thank  God  I"  And,  overcome  by  his  exti-eme 
weakness  and  great  emotion,  fainted. 

Annie  was  not  alarmed.  She  explained  the  mystei'j 
to  her  husband.  And  after  seeing  George  r»?store<J 
again  to  consciousness,  hastened  out  to  tell  Fannie. 

When  Ehe  rBt>]>r&ed  to  Georu-o  afirain.  he  whispered  I  - 


HD 


A   BBVEBB    LESSOV. 


"Sntreat  Fannie  to  come  to  me,  or  I  must  go  to 
ber«    I  will— I  must  see  her. " 

Annie  went  to  do  his  bidding.  And  so  eloquently  did 
she  plead  for  him,  that  in  a  short  time  she  returned, 
pushed  Fannie  into  the  room,  and  ran  away  quite 
delighted. 

**  Forgive,  and  take  me  back  to  your  heart,  Fannie, 
or  I  shall  surely  die.  Speak,  please ;  say  you  have  not 
oeased  to  love  me?  *'  George  pleaded. 

How  could  ijhe  resist  him  ?  He  looked  so  wan  and 
ill.  She  placed  her  hand  in  his,  bent  over  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  his  white  brow,  and  said : 

**  How  could  you  ever  have  doubted  me,  George  ?  I 
am  still  yours,  if  you  wish.    And  promise — " 

**  Never  to  doubt  you  again,  my  true,  faithful  love ! 
Oh,  I  had  a  fearful  lesson."  And  then  he  told  her  of 
the  many  things  that  had  happened  to  prove  clearly  to 
his  mind  that  she  was  lost  to  him.  The  way  his  sister 
wrote  was  calculated  to  deceive  him,  although  very 
unintentional  on  her  part.  And  then  the  manner  in 
which  their  names  were  registered :  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mowbray,  Mr.  Melton  and  daughter."  Was  further 
proof  needed  ? 

Fannie  explained  everything,  and  the  last  by  telling 
George  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  their  party,  only  slightly 
acquainted  with  them,  had  written  their  names,  and 
supposed  she  was  really  Mr.  Melton 's  daughter.  *  *  You 
know,"  she  said,  **  uncle  often  calls  me  '  ^ny  daugh- 
ter.'" 

George  grew  rapidly  well  then.  Love  was  the  needed 
balm.  A  veiy  few  days  after  the  jo^'ous  truth  came  to 
him,  he  was  strong  enough  to  ti'avel  home.  And  early 
in  the  fall,  Fannie  became  his.  Never  again  was  he 
attacked  with  a  fit  of  jealoii.^>y,  and  has  become,  uilder 
Fannie's  charge  and  instruction,  a  vary  senaibl'H  and 
IMMMOldBto  CttAr 


ALMOST  A  CRIME. 


BY    FBANOES    HENSHAW    BADBIT. 


He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  mil  a  and  beast  and  fowl ; 
He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best; 

All  'features,  great  and  srpaU ; 
For  the  good  Lord,  who  loveth  u?. 

He  made  and  loveth  all.— Col<2BID01. 

*fc  T^DDIE,  do  put  down  that  ugly  creature.  You  are 

Cj  a  perfect  beast  worshipper, ' '  said  Bertha  Dennl- 
son,  the  young  bride,  to  her  three  weeks'  bridegroom. 

He  obeyed,  as  bridegrooms  of  three  weeks  are  apt  to 
do;  but  he  expostulated,  as  husbands  of  all  times  are 
sure  to  do. 

**  If  cherishing  means  worshipping.  Bertha,  you 
might  call  mo  a  beast  worshipper.    And  if — " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply. 

**  I  would  not  mind  if  it  was  a  pretty  tortoise-shell 
kitten  ;  but  a  great  ugly  old  tabby  cat !  " 

"My  darling  1 "  said  Edward  DenuLson,  gravely,  "I 
was  about  to  say,  if  you  knew  the  reason  for  my  being 
kind  to  this  cat  and  to  all  God's  poor  dumb  creatures 
that  come  in  our  way,  you  would  not  blame  me.  I 
could  tell  you  somethinv.  Bertha.  Will  you  listen  ?  " 

She  pouted,  instead  of  answering. 

"  My  mother,  you  know,  was  a  notable  housekeeper. 
Bte  kept  her  house  In  perfect  order,  and  ruled  evaiy- 

(17X) 


172 


ALMOST  A  CRtMA. 


thing  in  it,  both  animate  and  inanimate,  except  one 
thing — a  young  rebel  of  a  cat,  which  was  the  torment 
of  her  life,  through  jumping  up  on  the  tea-table,  lickingr 
the  butter,  stealing  into  the  pantry,  lapping  the  cream, 
and  committing  divers  other  petty  depredations  ab- 
horrent to  the  souls  of  careful  housewives.  It  was  but 
a  thoughtless  j'oung  cat,  but  might  have  grown  better 
with  time  and  teaching.  But  my  mother  declared  she 
was  out  of  all  patience  with  her. 

*' One  daik  December  day  I  came  home  from  school, 
and  found  mother  in  our  tidy  kitchen,  where  we  always 
took  our  meals  in  winter.  She  was  busy  setting  the 
table  for  tea,  and  in  a  great  passion  besides.  I  soon 
saw  the  reason.  The  cieam-jug  was  turned  over, 
broken,  and  the  cream  spilled.  Of  course  the  young 
cat  was  tlie  culprit,  although  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.    Mother  spoke  up  suddenly  and  sharply  : 

"'Eddie,  I'll  give  you  a  silver  quarter  of  a  dollar. 
If  you  will  take  that  cat  and  drown  her.  I  can  never 
leave  the  room  one  minute  but  she  is  up  on  the  table. 
And  now  she  has  gone  and  broken  my  best  cream-jug. 
I'll  give  you  a  silver  quarter  if  you  will  tie  a  stone 
around  her  neck  and  drov/n  her.' 

"A  silver  quarter  !  I  walked  out  into  the  yard  in 
search  of  the  cat.  I  found  her  sitting  up  on  top  of  the 
chicken-house,  licking  and  trimming  herself— for  she 
was  a  vain  little  creature — in  total  unconsciousness  of 
her  guilt  and  impending  doom.  I  called  her,  *  Pussy, 
pussy,  pussy!*  She  immediately  jumped  down  and 
ran  joyously  to  me.  I  picked  her  up  in  my  arms,  and 
she  greeted  me  with  her  poor,  inarticulate,  tender  tones, 
as  she  rubbed  her  head  against  my  cheek  and  chin. 
Even  then  m^'^  heart  smote  me  for  a  moment  for  what 
I  was  goingr  to  do  to  her. 


ALMOST   A    CBZMB. 


m 


•*Blib  I  hardened  my  heart,  and  trotted  off  to* 
ward  the  river,  went  upon  the  bridge,  and  found  a 
good  place  for  the  deed.  At  that  moment  my  good 
angel  left  me,  for  I  took  from  mj'-  pocket  the  cord  and 
stone  that  I  had  provided,  and  while  she  was  purring 
and  playing  with  the  cord,  grimly  tied  one  end  of  it 
around  her  neck  and  the  other  end  of  it  around  the 
stone.  *  It  will  soon  be  over,  and  after  all,  she  is  noth- 
ing but  a  cat,'  I  said.  And  I  held  he''  over  the  bridge 
to  drop  her  into  the  ri-^er.  Thou  indeed  she  clung  to 
me,  and  looked  astonishes'  and  wild.  For  the  first  time 
she  seemed  to  know  hei  danger.  She  struggled,  and 
grasped  my  coat  with  her  claws  and  held  on.  But  I 
pulled  her  away  by  force  and  threw  her  into  the  river. 
I  heard  the  splash,  and  saw  the  water  close  over  her. 
I  hurried  away  from  the  spot,  with  the  sickening  im- 
pression that  I  had  done  a  murder.  I  thought  of  her 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Potomac,  suffocating  to  death,  and 
1  had  to  keep  repeating  to  myself,  *  Oh,  it  will  soon  be 
over  with  her.  And  after  all,  she  is  nothing  but  a  cat* 
And  besides,  didn' ,  mother  tell  me  to  drown  her  ? '  It 
would  not  do;  my  heart  was  decidedly  heavy.  Never 
do  you  do  a  murder.  Bertha.  No  one  but  a  murderer 
knows  how  it  oppresses  one's  spiiits. 

"It  was  raining  hard  when  I  reached  home.  I  found 
mother  just  where  1  loft  her,  busy  in  the  kitchen.  She 
was  standing  at  the  table,  slicing  bread  for  tea. 

"  *  Well,  mother,  I  have  drowned  the  cat,*  I  said, 
knocking  the  rain-drops  off  my  cap. 

"*  What!  '  she  exclaimed,  ceasing  her  employment, 
and  poising  the  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  bread  in  the 
other,  as  she  stared  at  me. 

"  *  Yes,  I've  drowned  the  cat ;  and  now  I  want  mj 
silver  quarter  of  a  dollar,* 


m 


▲  LSCOST  A   OXtXHB. 


***  Yoa  did  f  she  Bald,  with  a  look  at  surprlso,  gad^ 
Btts,  and  reproach  on  her  face. 

"  *  Yes;  I  tied  a  stone  around  her  neck  to  sink  hei> 
and  dropped  her  into  the  river.  And  you  promised  me 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar  for  doing  it,*  I  answered,  sulkily, 
for  I  felt  injured  by  her  look. 

**  Without  a  single  word  she  put  her  hand  into  her 
pocket,  drew  out  a  silver  quarter,  and  gave  it  to  me, 
turning  her  head  away.  I  felt  more  injured  than  before. 
What  did  mother  mean  ?    I  only  did  what  she  told  me. 

"  But  as  I  was  going  to  a  concert,  I  tried  to  throw 
olT  all  unpleasant  thoughts.  I  dressed  myself  and  came 
down  and  joined  the  family  at  tea  without  much  appe- 
tite. Besides,  I  missed  something — I  missed  the  little 
cat,  who  always  sat  by  my  chair  and  touched  me  softly 
with  her  paw  now  and  then,  to  remind  me  to  give  her  a 
morsel.  I  gulped  down  my  tea,  and  started  off  to  Con- 
cert Hall  to  see  the  minstrels.  And  soon,  seated  in  th« 
front  row,  enjoying  the  unparalleled  burlesque  of  song 
and  sentiment,  I  forgot  all  about  my  deed  of  the  even- 
ing. Or  if  I  thought  of  it  at  all,  it  was  only  to  laugh 
at  hiyself  as  a  sickly,  sentimental  sort  of  a  fellow,  to 
think  so  much  about  drowning  a  cat. 

"  After  the  performance  I  came  home.  It  was  not 
very  late,  yet  the  family  had  retired.  I  took  the  key 
from  under  the  step,  where  it  was  usually  hidden  for  any 
of  the  family  who  were  out  at  night,  and  opened  the 
Idtchen  door  and  went  in.  The  stove  was  warm,  and  a 
night-lamp  was  burning  on  the  table.  Everything  had 
been  left  comfortable  for  me,  and  I  sat  down  before  the 
fire  to  dry  my  wet  clothes.  But  how  empty  and  deso- 
late and  forlorn  the  place  looked  after  all !  I  missed 
something.  It  was  the  cat,  who  always  slept  at  night 
W  the  ri^  tn  front  of  the  stove ;  who  always  welcomed 


AtltOtT  A  ORIMB 


OT 


me  home,  when  I  came  in  at  nl^ht,  by  getting  tip  and 
rubbing  against  my  shins  and  purring  her  pleasure 
at  seeing  me.  And  now  she  was  at  the  bottom  of  ihe 
Potomac,  with  a  stone  tied  to  her  neck ;  and  I  had 
thrown  her  there.    And  for  a  mean  quarter  of  a  dollar  I 

"  I  got  up,  took  the  lamp,  and  went  up-stairs  to  bed. 
But  I  could  not  sleep.  How  the  wind  and  the  rain 
lashed  and  beat  against  the  windows  I  How  I  thought 
of  the  cat  at  the-  bottom  of  the  river  1  '  And  bhe  had 
but  this  one  life,  and  I  took  that  for  a  base  quarter  of  a 
dollar,*  I  said  to  myself.  And  oh,  I  would  have  gladly 
given  all  the  boyish  treasures  I  possessed  in  the  world, 
if  I  could  have  brought  her  back  to  life.  And  so  I  lay 
and  tossed  from  side  to  side,  listening  to  the  beating  of 
the  storm,  and  thought  what  a  mean  and  cruel  wretch 
I  bad  been. 

"  Hush  I  what  was  that  ?  I  started,  and  sat  up  in 
bed  and  listened.  As  sure  as  1  live,  It  was  a  scratch 
and  a  mew,  at  the  kitchen  door — sounds  as  familiar  to 
me  as  the  children's  voices ;  but  that  I  never  had  ex- 
pected to  hear  again.  "Well,  I  have  heard  Thall:)erg 
and  Ole  Bull  play;  I've  heard  Lind  and  Nilsson  sing; 
I've  heard  '-he  dinner-bell ;  but  of  all  the  instrumental 
or  vocal  music  I  ever  heard,  none  ever  thrilled  my  soul 
with  such  delight  as  that  performance  on  the  kitchen 
door. 

**  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  jumped  out  of 
bed ;  and  without  waiting  to  draw  on  a  single  garment, 
I  ran  down-stairs,  half  naked,  in  the  cold,  and  tore  open 
the  kitchen  door.  There  stood  my  cat,  dripping  wet, 
with  the  cord  dangling  round  her  neck,  and  the  empty 
noose.  I  saw  in  an  instant  how  it  was.  In  falling  over 
the  bridge,  when  she  was  thrown,  the  round  stone  had 
slipped  from  the  noose,  and  the  poor  cat  had  swan^ 


m 


ALUOBT   A   CltlUB^ 


asliore,  and  found  her  way  home  through  night  and 
storm.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  jumped  in  and 
rubbed  up  against  my  shins,  with  her  poor,  confiding 
mew,  just  as  if  I  liad  never  tried  to  drown  her.  I 
caught  her  up  in  my  arms,  all  dripping  wet  as  she  was. 
I  hugged  her,  kissed  her,  and  comforted  her  in  a  manner 
that,  under  any  other  circumstances ,  would  have  been 
supremely  absurd.  I  took  her  up-s  irs  with  me,  dried 
her  as  well  as  I  could  with  niy  towel,  and,  damp  and 
cold  as  she  was,  took  her  to  bed  with  me. 

**  Oh,  how  relieved  I  was  !  How  I  loved  that  cat  for 
getting  out  of  the  river  and  coming  home  I  I  talked  to 
her,  and  petted  her,  half  of  the  night.  I  told  her  how 
sorry  I  was,  and  how  I  never  would  do  it  again.  But 
she  seemed  perfectly  indifferent  to  my  crime  and  re* 
pentance,  and  only  cuddled  up  to  m^"  bosom,  and  purred 
and  sung,  in  a  funny  content,  until  we  both  fell  asleep. 

"  In  the  morning,  when  I  went  down  to  breakfast,  I 
carried  the  cat  in  my  arms,  and  sat  down  with  her  at 
the  table. 

"  *  Why,  I  thought  you  had  drowned  that  cat,  Eddie  1  * 
my  mother  said,  with  a  look  strangely  blended  of 
pleasure  and  pain,  as  if  she  was  glad  the  cat  was  alive, 
yet  sorry  that  her  boj'  had  deceived  her  and  obtained 
money  under  false  pretences.  *  I  say  I  thought  you  had 
drowned  that  cat,  Eddie,'  she  repeated,  as  if  demand- 
ing an  explanation. 

**  *  Well,  so  I  did  drown  her  1 '  I  answered,  playing 
sulk3%  *  At  least,  1  tried  my  best  to  do  it.  I  tied  a 
stone  round  her  neck  to  sink  her,  and  then  dropped  her 
into  the  Potomac.  But  she  got  out,  somehow  or  other, 
and  came  home  last  night.  I  suppose  the  stone  slipped 
out  of  the  noose,  and  she  swam  ashore.  All  cats  can 
8Wim,  you  know.    And  now,  must  I  try  it  again  ? ' 


▲LMOdT  A  OttlUB. 


177 


"  ♦  No,*  said  my  mother.  Ard  that  was  all  that  ever 
passed  between  us  on  the  subject. 

"  But  from  that  time  pussy  ate  of  my  bread  and  drank 
of  my  cup  by  day,  and  slept  on  my  bed  at  night,  until 
the  war  broke  out.  I  cured  her  of  her  cream-stealing 
propensities.  If  any  one  had  even  spoken  harshly  to 
that  cat,  they  vrould  have  had  to  quarrel  with  me. 
The  war  separated  us  for  a  time,  as  it  did  many  good 
friends,  but  peace  reunited  us,  and  I  have  brought  her 
to  my  new  home.  And  now,  dear  Bertha,  you  under- 
stand why  I  cherish  the  poor  cat." 

Then,  lifting  the  animal  tenderly  to  his  kiice,  he 
caressed  her. 

**  You  forgave  me  for  trying  to  murder  you,  didn't 
you,  pussy  ?  And  not  many  human  beings  would  have 
dojao  that,  would  they  ?  " 


WHO  WAS  TO  BE  BRIDEt 


Ifi: 


BT  FRANCES  HEKSHAW  BADEN. 

•'  T)ROMISE  me,  George,  that  you  will  never  forsalra 

-t  Amy.  After  I  am  gone  she  will  have  no  fiiend 
but  you.  She  has  always  been  to  me  a  blessing.  If 
ehe  was  really  my  own  daughter,  I  could  not  love  her 
better.  So,  my  boy,  I  leave  her  a  sacred  charge  to  you. 
Should  the  time  ever  be  when  you  shall  feel  another  love 
than  that  you  bear  your  little  sister,  you  must  not,  in 
securing  your  own  happiness,  forget  hers — my  poor, 
gentle,  timid  little  Amy  1 " 

"  Have  no  fear,  mother.  Amy  shall  never  want  for  a 
friend,  or  love.  She  shall  be  as  tenderly  watched  ovor 
and  cared  for  in  the  future,  as  she  has  ever  been  in  the 
past.     I  solemnly  promise  you  this." 

"Thank  you,  my  son.  You  have  relieved  my  only 
uneasiness.  I  can  rest  now  in  perfect  peace.  Now  send 
Amy  to  me." 

That  night  a  wail  of  sorrow  sounded  through  the  home 
of  George  Foster.  It  was  Amy's  voice.  They  found  her 
«7ith  her  arms  still  clasped  around  the  form  so  deax. 
Reorge  drew  her  gently  away,  saying : 

"  Come,  Amy.  You  are  my  child  now.  Mother  gave 
you  to  my  care,  and  may  God  deal  by  me  according  to 
my  worthiness  of  that  charge.  Now  go  and  try  to  sleeps 
my  little  sister." 

He  gave  her  to  the  faithful  housekeeper^  < 

a78> 


WHO    WAS    TO     BB     BBI£f? 


m 


Still  weeping,  but  unreBisting,  Amy  did  his  bidding. 
All  her  life  she  had  yielded  to  his  wishes.^  Hex  brother's 
will  was  hers. 

Mrs.  Foster  was  a  very  wealthy  widow,  owning  a  fine 
plantation  in  the  South,  with  many  slaves.  George  was 
her  only  child  and  constant  companion,  and  at  an  early 
age  became  her  confidant  and  adviser.  This  of  course 
made  him  thoughtful  and  grave  beyond  his  years.  When 
he  was  about  seventeen,  his  mother  adopted  Amy,  an 
infant,  orphaned  and  friendless.  George  was  very  fond 
of  the  pretty  little  child,  and  she  was  taught  by  her 
mother,  as  well  as  all  the  servants,  "Always  mind 
what  your  brother  says,"  or,  "  Do  as  your  brother  tells 
you." 

What  a  loving,  dutiful  little  daughter  and  sister  she 
was  I  And  what  a  capable,  thrifty  little  housekeeper  she 
grew  to  be,  relieving  her  benefactor  of  much  care !  Proud 
as  well  as  fond  was  Mrs.  Foster  of  her  adopted  child. 

Amy  was  eighteen  when  her  mother's  death  left  her  to 
George's  care.  Scarcely  six  months  had  gone  by,  when 
the  kind  and  considerate  ladies  of  the  neighborhood  began 
to  engage  their  minds  with  thoughts  and  plans  for  the 
future  welfare  of  the  wealthiest  young  man  of  their  com- 
munity. It  was  probable  he  would  marry — in  truth, 
quite  desirable  that  he  should,  and  that  his  choice  should 
be  such  as  would  be  acceptable  to  the  parish.  Now  this 
young  man  in  question  wr.s  George  Foster,  who  was  a 
very  attentive  member  of  the  church,  a  communicant, 
and  about  the  most  liberal  contributor  to  all  charitablo 
funds. 

While  Mrs.  Foster  lived,  there  was  neither  chance  nor 

hope  for  George's  marrying.     He  was  devoted  alone  to 

ber.    But  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  be  looked 

after.   So  (he  rector's  wife,  Mra.  Cbailtoo,  who  had  q 

U 


180 


WHO    WAS    TO    BB    DBIDSf 


very  loY^ly  young  niece,  thought  that  no  one  c^vld  bt 
more  acceptable  to  eveiy  one  than  her  dear  A  dele;  and 
eo  she  set  herself  to  work  to  manage  the  affair  skilfully. 

She  began  with  sending,  ou  several  occasions,  for  Ma 
Foster,  to  advise  with  and  help  the  rector  and  herself  in 
matters  connected  with  the  poor  of  the  parish.  Of  course 
Adele  always  appeared  at  such  times  to  the  best  advai>» 
tage.  Then  once,  when  out  riding  near  the  Manor^ 
George's  home,  Mrs.  Chariton  remembered  that  Mrs, 
Foster  had  been  very  successful  in  the  culture  of  a  certain 
plant;  and  being  very  anxious  of  securing  some,  and  tha 
knowledge  of  the  proper  mode  of  rearing,  she  called  to  ask 
the  favor  of  Mr.  Foster. 

Of  course  he  insisted  that  Mrs.  Charlton  should  enter, 
and  partake  of  the  hospitalities  of  his  i^ome. 

Then  for  the  first  time  did  the  thol'**,,  c:.  an  obstacla 
in  the  way  of  the  final  success  of  her  plan  present 
itself. 

Amy  had  been  regarded  by  this  worthy  lady  as  a  child, 
a  dependent,  and  by  no  means  to  be  dreaded  as  a  rival. 
For  eighteen  months,  during  the  time  of  Mrs.  Foster's 
extreme  illness,  and  since  her  death.  Amy  had  been  very 
much  secluded.  When,  occasionally,  she  had  been  seen 
by  callers,  they  had  noticed  her  but  little.  But  it  seemed 
to  Mrs.  Charlton  that  by  magic  the  child  had  become  a 
Very  beautiful  and  really  charming  woman. 

Everything  was  in  perfect  order  at  the  Manor,  and  a 
delicate  and  tempting  lunch  served,  at  which  Amy  pre- 
eided  with  such  quiet  dignity,  that,  to  use  a  very  trite 
expression,  Mrs.  Charlton  was  considerably  "  taken, aback." 

In  her  expectations,  Amy  was  to  be  dreaded.  The 
rector's  wife  wanted  some  advice  in  this  dilemma,  and  so 
she  sought  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Fairfield,  a  very  hand- 
some widow,  but  not  yomijc  enough  to  be  ff*9&^  as  a  rival 


■i^^m^jiiMtfT'"' 


MiUAitttmrrx-  , 


WHO  WAS   TO    BB    BBIDE? 


m 


of  Adele's,  she  thought  The  widow  was  shrewd,  and  poB« 
sessed  of  auick  wit. 

Quite  forty,  but  looking  muc.^i  younger,  she  had  been 
thinking  much  oi  Mr.  Foster  lately,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion how  well  it  would  be  for  him  if  he  would  take  a 
wife;  and  that  she  herself  could  be  the  one  to  make  him 
very  liappy.  So,  when  Mrs.  Charlton  came,  the  widow 
joined  with  her  very  heartily  in  the  idea  that  Mr.  Foster 
ought  certainly  to  be  secured ;  and  little  Amy  must  surely 
be  gotten  out  of  the  way.  Now,  when  the  thought  of 
getting  rid  of  the  orphan  girl  came  to  Mrs.  Charlton's 
mind,  she  never  for  an  instant  thought  of  doing  her  any 
harm.  But  tlie  widow  made  up  her  mind  to  get  her  away 
at  any  risk.  So  there  was  a  little  word,  a  very  significant 
look,  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  given  to  Mrs.  Archer,  the 
mother  oi  five  daughters,  ranging  from  twenty  to  thirty" 
five. 

This  kind  woman,  too,  had  been  considering  very  deeply 
the  lonely  condition  of  young  Foster,  and  thinking  how 
ahe  would  hke  to  be  a  mother  to  him,  when  Mrs.  Fairfield 
opened  her  eyes  to  the  truth — which  was  a  shame  to  the 
parish — that  he  was  not  a  lonely  man.  This  matter  must 
be  attended  to  immediately.  And  eo  it  went  around  and 
abroad,  until  the  rector's  wife  said : 

"  My  dear,  every  one  is  talking  of  it!  I  never  dreamed 
of  the  impropriety,  to  say  the  l^ast  of  it,  until  every  one 
saw  and  spoke  of  it" 

"Oh,  certainly;  I  must  po  Immediately  and  talk  to 
young  Foster  on  the  impropriety  of  his  course,''  said 
worthy  Mr.  Charlton. 

And  off  he  went  that  very  hour.  And  after  considerably 
hesitation — for,  when  getting  face  to  face  with  the  noble, 
grave-looking  young  man,  the  rector  found  it  a  most 
cU&oult  and  delicate  matter  to  appzoacb  a  «ut(iect  thai 


li^A 


182 


WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BRIDE^ 


would  call  in  question  the  actions  of  one  s&  wortby  of 
lespect — lie  ventured  to  tell  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"Whatl  not  keep  Amy,  my  child,  my  little  sister,  with 
me?  Send  her  awayl"  exclaimed  Geovjt-  Foster,  with 
intense  amazement. 

"  My  young  friend,  you  know,  except  by  your  mother's 
adoption,  she  is  neither.  For  her  own  good,  you  should 
do  so.  Can  you  not  think  that  her  fair  name  may  suffer, 
should  this  assumed  relationship  be  continued  ?  During 
your  respected  mother's  life,  it  was  of  course  perfectly  right 
and  proper ;  but — " 

"  But,  sir,  my  mother  bound  me  by  a  sacred  promise 
never  to  forsake  Amy, — to  consider  her  happiness  always. 
Send  her  from  me !  How?  Where?  To  whom?  She  is 
Wiihout  friends  1 "  said  George  Foster,  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"  Procure  her  a  position  as  teacher,  or  seamstress — some 
respectable  employment  away  from  the  neighborhood.  I 
will  aid  you  in  this  duty;  you  should  consider  it,"  answered 
the  rector. 

"I  cannot — I  cannot.  My  promise  forbids  it.  Poor 
fittle  Amy!  Why  could  not  these  people  let  her  alone? 
Poor  innocent  child  I  How  can  I  shield  her  from 
them?" 

"  Give  them  no  cause  to  think  wrong  of  either  her  or 
you,  my  friend.  Now,  if  3'ou  were  married,  your  wife's 
presence  would,  of  course,  render  Amy's  presence  perfectly 
proper." 

"  Why,  Amy  is  not  the  only  woman  in  my  house.  My 
housekeeper,  a  worthy,  aged  and  Christian  woman,  la 
with  us." 

**My  dear  friend,  sho  is  yonr  colored  servant,  bomid  to 
do  your  bidding.    Her  presence  is  not  suflScieni." 

"  Marry  ?  I  have  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  And 
yoa.  aay  1  must  either  send  Amy  off  or  bn^  a  wiiia  heitOk 


iWH 


WHO    WAS    TO    BK    BRIDE? 


183 


that  she  may  remain,  and  evil  tongues  be  stoj)ped?"  said 
Oeorge,  bitterly. 

"  My  young  friend,  you  are  excited  and  unjust,  I  thinlc 
There  are  certain  duties  we  owe  to  society,"  said  the 
rector. 

"Well,  ■well,  to  shield  poor  little  Amy,  I  will  many. 
But  who  shall  I  marry  ?  " 

"There  are  many  ?ovely  and  most  suitable  ladies  in  our 
congregation,  several  of  whom  you  are  abeady  acquainted 
with." 

And  the  good  man  proceeded  to  do  full  justice  to  tha 
virtues  of  several  ladies,  among  whom  were  the  Misses 
Archer  and  Mrs.  Fairfield.  Now  the  one  uppermost  in 
bis  thoughts  he  never  mentioned.  But  when  about  taking 
his  leave  he  urged  the  young  man  to  come  to  see  him, 
saying: 

"  Drop  in  often.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  very  much  interested 
in  you.  We  shall  be  very  happy  in  aiding  you  in  your 
very  wise  conclusion." 

**  Thank  you.  I  will  think  of  this  matter.  You  shall 
know  of  my  decision  before  long." 

"Amy,  my  child,  come  here.  Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,"  said  George  Foster,  the  cex '  morning  after  break- 
fest,  when  he  drew  Amy  into  the  library,  and  tenderly 
seated  her  beside  him.  "Amy,  I  am  going  to  be  married," 
he  said. 

"  Married  ?  "  she  gasped,  turning  very  pale. 

**Yes,  little  sister,  married.  Don't  you  want  your 
brother  to  marry?  You  surely  wish  him  the  happiness 
of  other  men?  Otherwise,  Amy,  I  might  grew  sour,  cross 
and  generally  disagreeable,  as  it  is  said  most  old  bachelors 
.are—" 

"  No,  no ;  that  could  never  be  with  you,'*  Amy  said,  in  a 
foioe  which  was  full  o^  tears. 


■••■:4r.H,4,=vii*BiS9Hlf% 


fllatlll  I 


184 


WHO   WAS   TO    BB    BBIDSf 


"  Well,  well ;  perhaps  not.  But  one  had  better  be  on  ^10 
Bafe  side,  Amy.  You  will  fix  up  the  place,  littl* 
girl— make  it  bright  and  pretty  for  my  wife,  will  you 
not?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  whispered  Amy,  and  then  sank  weeping 
in  her  brother's  arms. 

"There,  there;  I  see  how  it  is.  Sisters  must  always 
suffer  in  giving  up  their  brothers  for  others  to  love,  I 
think.  And  perhaps  you  fear  you  may  not  be  happy 
with  my  wife.  Amy  t " 

Only  a  sob  answered  him. 

"  Rest  assured,  my  child,  I  will  bring  no  one  here  who 
will  in  any  way  mar  your  happiness.  My  wife  will,  I  am 
Bure,  be  acceptable  to  you.  Only  such  a  one  will  I  briog 
here." 

Amy  went  about  making  the  place  beautiful  But  her 
poor  little  heart  was  very  sad.  Often  she  stole  away  and 
Wept  long  and  bittedy.  On  on©  occasion,  when  Geoigs 
returned  home  from  town  much  earlier  than  usual,  he 
stepped  noiselessly  into  the  drawing-room,  and  found 
Amy,  with  her  head  buried  in  tho  cushion  of  the  eofa, 
weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

He  let  her  weep  on  until  she  grew  calmer,  and  when 
about  to  go  and  taLs  to  her,  and  find  out,  if  possible,  the 
cause  of  her  sorrow,  he  was  arrested  by  hearing  her  say : 

"  Can  she  love  him  as  I  ?  No,  no.  I  am  sure  not,  fi)f 
others  share  her  love.  She  has  friends,  while  1  give  all  (o 
him.  No  one  else  in  the  world  I  love.  Father,  mother, 
sister,  brother — aye,  more  than  all  these  is  he  to  me.  And 
i  only  share  his  love  with  her.  Aftei  a  while  it  will  grow 
less  and  Issa,  I  suppose." 

George  Foster  stepned  back ;  a  ne^  light  had  fallen  upon 
him.  He  never  dreamed  this  timid,  gentle,  quiet  gizi 
loved  Mm,  or  oould  love  any  one  ihua.   Then  be  knew 


M/HlV  1  "^' 


WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BBIDE? 


185 


Htd* 

I  yott 

3eplng 

ilwayi 
love,  I 
happy 


re  who 
1,1  am 
i  bring 

But  her 
T&y  and 
George 
lual,  he 
found 
19  eofi^ 

d  when 

ible,  the 
^r  say : 
not,  for 
veaUtO 
mother, 
e.  And 
ml  grow 

lenupoa 
uiet  gill 
be  }eo0» 


w 


Wltttt  a  trial  it  would  be  to  her— the  presence  of  any  other 
woman  possessing  his  love. 

How  should  he  comfort  htr  ?  How  reconcile  her  to  tho 
woman  he  had  selected  as  his  wife  ? 

He  waited  on  the  piazza  until  she  came  out,  a  half  hour 
after,  and  then,  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  he  walked 
with  her  to  the  family  graveyard,  and  there,  standing 
befide  his  mother's  tomb,  he  told  her  why  it  was  he  had 
ftrst  decided  to  take  a  wife.  With  great  caution  and  del- 
ioacy  he  told  her  of  the  rector's  visit. 

*'  So  you  see,  my  child,  for  your  welfare  alone  I  deter- 
mined to  marry,"  he  said.  "  Your  happiness  was  my  first 
thought.  But,  Amy,  after  I  had  picked  out  my  wife,  and 
I  knew  more  of  her,  I  found  out  how  very  much  iiy  own 
happiness  was  concerned.  The  woman  i  have  grown  to 
love  is  one  I  am  sure  all  will  love  who  know  her.  And 
no^if  I  feel  how  terribly  I  should  suffer  if  I  should  lose 
her." 

Much  more  he  said,  until  she  grew  very  calm  and  cou' 
tent.  In  hia  happiness  she  would  find  hers.  And  so  she 
went  on  with  her  work  more  cheerfully,  making  things 
beautiful  for  George's  wife ;  as  ever  doing  his  bidding. 

"Trust  me  and  be  at  peace,"  he  said.  And  so  she  did, 
ai*^-'  was.  Much  of  George's  time  was  divided  between  the 
factor's  home,  the  widow  Fairfield's,  and  Mrs.  Archer's. 

E.ppy  was  little  Mrs.  Charlton  in  the  thought  of  her 
final  success.  Knowing  Adele,  George  must  surely  grow 
to  love  her.  She  told  of  her  hopes  to  the  widow  Fairfield, 
«»'''io  smilingly  congratulated  her  friend,  thinking  all  the 
tune: 

"Oh,  if  you  knew  how  little  Adele  has  reason  for  hopes! 
and  how  often  he  comes  to  see  me  I " 

But  the  widow  was  a  little  disconcerted  the  next  mom- 
iogf  when  visiting  Mra.  Archer,  to  meet  Mr.  Foster,  and 


186 


WnO    WAS    TO    BE    BBIDE? 


iJi! 


^ear  from  the  exultant  mother  that  he  came  very  often. 
Yet  she  could  not  decide  which  of  her  girls  was  the  chosen 
one. 

Time  passed  on  until  a  month  had  elapsed,  the  man- 
oeuvring aunt,  mamma,  and  widow  thinking  that  surely 
every  coming  of  Mr.  Foster  must  disclose  the  object  of  his 
visits,  when  the  rector's  wife  was  very  much  astonished  to" 
hear  from  her  husband  that  George  Foster  was  to  be  mar- 
ried the  next  day  ;  but  to  whom  he  knew  not,  as  the  gen- 
tleman declared  his  intention  of  keeping  his  own  counsel 
until  the  time  of  the  ceremony.  So  poor  Mrs.  Charlton, 
although  she  could  not  decide  who  his  bride  was  to  be, 
knew  full  well  it  was  not  Adoie — one  of  the  Archer  girls 
most  likely.  Little  she  thought  of  the  widow  Fairfield, 
whom  her  good  husband  declared  the  lucky  one.  Hia 
belief  was  founded  on  the  fact  of  his  having  frequently 
met  Mr.  Foster  at  her  home,  and  confirmed  by  that  lady's 
entire  change  of  dress,  she  having  thrown  ofi"  all  vestige 
of  aiourning  and  n])peared  in  colors  again. 

The  next  day,  during  ihc  morning  service,  the  rector 
announced  that,  after  thi  conclusion  of  divine  worship, 
thtro  would  be  a  marriage  ceremony  performed  in  the 
church,  and  tbe  congregation  were  invited  to  be  present. 
Who  the  happy  ones  were  was  unknown  or  suspected, 
Bare  by  the  rector  and  his  family. 

The  services  were  over,  the  members  of  the  congregation 
eat  waiting  and  watching  for  the  entrance  of  the  bride  and 
groom,  when  George  Foster  arose  from  his  seat  in  the 
choir,  walked  down  the  steps  and  up  the  aisle  to  hia 
mother's  pew,  from  whence  lie  gently  drew  a  little  figure, 
and  proceeded  with  her  up  to  the  altar  and  stood  before 
the  rector.  The  surprise  of  the  good  folks  may  be  imag- 
ined. It  was  a  wonderful  act  of  self-control,  which  pre* 
vented  the  exclamations  of  such.    A  few  momoota  mori^ 


WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BRIDE? 


18) 


and  little  Amy's  future  welfare  was  so  well  considered, 
that  no  longer  a  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  her  continuance 
in  George  Foster's  home  existed.  For  still  the  minister's 
voice  was  sounding  in  their  ears,  repeating  the  words, 
"  What  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Mrs.  Charlton  was  the  first  to  come  forward  and  offer 
her  congratulations.  She  was  sorely  disappointed  in  the 
result  of  her  plans ;  but  it  was  her  duty,  as  a  Christian,  to 
bear  it  ijatiently,  and  as  the  rector's  wife,  to  be  affable  and 
agreeable  to  all  her  husband's  charge.  A  few  more  came 
up  with  sincere  and  kind  wishes,  and  some  of  Mrs. 
Foster's  old  friends  accepted  George's  invitation  to  return 
with  them  to  the  manor. 

The  next  day  the  happy  pair  left  for  a  northern  tour. 
During  their  absence,  cards  of  invitation  were  sent  out  for 
a  reception  on  their  return. 

The  disappointed  ones  declared,  at  first,  their  intention 
of  neither  calling  on  nor  countenancing  George  Foster's 
wife.  But,  upon  second  thought  and  mature  deliberation, 
they  came  to  the  conclusion  they  could  not  well  afford  to 
insult  or  alienate  the  wealtliicst,  and  one  of  the  most 
respectable  men  of  their  number;  and  so  Amy's  wedding 
reception  was  largely  attended. 

And  George  Foster  ever  felt  thankful  to  the  kind, 
thoughtful  ladies  whose  plans  for  his  welfare  had  resulted 
BO  happily,  although  confident  that  Amy's  future  good  or 
ill  was  of  little  consequence  to  them.  Still  he  forgave 
them,  remembering  not  the  intention^  only  the  residt — their 
defeat  and  his  victory,  in  securing  the  greatest  boon  from 
HoftVQU  to  man,  a  true  aud  lovlug  wife. 


WHAT  THE  FUTURE  MIGHT  BRINa 

BY    FRANCES    HENSHATV    BADEST. 

**  rMVE  him  to  me,  heavenly  Father!    Have  mtrojl 

VJ  Pity  my  loneliness,  and  give  him  to  me  I  My  all! 
my  only  one ! "  Mary  Ashton  prayed  on,  repeating  again 
the  cry,  "  Give  him  to  me  I "  She  could  not  say,  "  Thy 
will,  not  mine,  be  done !  "  No ;  she  could  only  plead  for 
the  one  great  boon,  his  precious  life. 

He  was  her  all — *'  the  widow's  son."  As  she  Btill  knslt 
beside  him,  the  look  of  suffering  passed  away ;  the  painful 
breathing  ceased ;  he  sank  into  a  sweet,  refreshing  sleep. 
The  mother  felt  that  new  life  was  given  him — he  would 
still  be  hers. 

Her  piayer  was  granted.  He  grew  rapidly  in  strongth. 
Soon  her  pride,  her  darling,  raised  as  it  were  from  the  dead, 
was  again  making  the  house  merry  with  his  infant  glee. 

Years  passed  on.  Herbert's  will  growing  stronger ;  his 
more  and  more  exacting  nature  at  times  forcing  a  feeling 
of  uneasiness  in  his  mother's  heart.  Yet  she  would  seek 
to  drive  it  hence  with  the  more  ch(jering  thought,  "H« 
will  grow  mnre  considerate  and  manly  in  a  few  years." 

Gifted  with  the  brightest  talents,  he  mastered  with 
perfect  ease  his  various  studies  at  school.  The  proud, 
fond  mother  pictured  to  herself  his  brilliant  career  in 
the  future.  "But  no;  he  would  not  strive  for  fortune 
or  fame.  There  was  no  need  of  his  slaving  for  a  liviug. 
His  mother  had  means  abundant,"  he  said. 
(188) 


WHAT    THE    FUTtTBE    MIGHT    BBINQ.     189 

Time  rolled  on.  In  his  early  manhood  he  won  the 
beart  of  a  beautiful  girl.  Carefully  had  Mary  concealed 
hii  many  faults,  that  any  other  than  a  mother  might  have 
termed  vices. 

"  Rose  will  win  him  from  such.  He  loves  her  so  truly, 
and  she  is  so  charming,  he  cannot  resist  her  efforts,"  Mary 
murmured. 

Rose's  low,  sweet  voice  was  whispering  in  her  ear:  " Oh, 
what  a  happy  girl !  What  a  happy,  happy  little  family 
•we  are,  and  must  always  be ! " 

Weeks  rolled  by — months,  only  a  few,  when  the  mother 
felt  keenly  how  terribly  mistaken  she  had  been  in  the 
course  she  had  pursued  with  her  boy. 

When  gently  she  remonstrated  with  him,  his  cruel, 
heartless  reply  pierced,  to  the  very  quick,  the  heart  already 
■carred  by  his  many  wounds  : 

"  Thank  yourself  for  what  I  am.    You  have  made  me 

■0." 

Daily  she  saw  the  loving,  confiding  woman — the  Rose 
once  blooming  so  brightly — growing  paler ;  the  young  life 
blighted  by  her  son's  cruel  nature. 

His  reckless  extravagance  drew  heavily  on  the  mother's 
once  ample  means.  Worse  and  worse  it  grew,  until  she 
had  nothing  left  but  the  merest  pittance.  From  the  homo 
of  luxury,  they  went  to  one  where  only  the  strictest 
economy  must  reign.  But  Herbert  still  dressed  elegantly ; 
his  cigars  were  the  best ;  his  wines  old  and  pure.  Yet  he 
earned  no  money,  the  mother  knew.  How  did  he  obtain 
them?  A  great  fear  entered  her  heart.  Was  he  a 
gambler?  Oh,  if  that  were  all  1  It  came  at  last — the  last 
drop  in  the  cup  of  bitterness,  which  wife  and  mother 
both  must  drain. 

Herbert  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  forgery.  The 
last  few  remaining  articlesi  remembrances  of  former  daysy 


mmm»mrmauuilim 


190      WHAT    THE    FUTURE    MIOHT    BEIlf©. 


III: 

III 


I 


III 


were  disposed  of,  to  raise  money  with  which  the  connse!, 
one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  the  State,  was  obtained.  Oh, 
the  agony  of  those  days  during  which  the  trial  was  pend- 
ing— the  terrible  suspense  I  At  length  the  case  was  given 
to  the  jury.  At  home,  praying  for  their  loved  one,  waited 
the  wife  and  mother,  to  know  the  result.  Soon  it  came — 
conviction — with  the  terrible  sentence,  five  years  impris- 
onment in  the  State-prison.  A  few  days  more,  and  they 
must  bid  him  adieu. 

The  day  of  parting  came.  Oh,  who  can  describe  their 
anguish  ?  Rose  was  borne  insensible  from  his  cell.  With 
her  fond  arms  clinging  about  him,  the  mother  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  bear  this  for  you,  my  boy  1  my  boy  I 
Willingly  would  I  die  to  save  you  1 " 

The  miserable  man,  at  length  brought  to  his  senses, 
pressed  the  trembling  form  to  his  bosom,  and  said,  with 
emotion : 

"  I  know  you  would,  my  mother.  Oh,  would  that  I  had 
died  in  ray  infancy !  Why,  why  did  you  pray  for  my 
life  ?  You  see  what  a  curse  it  has  been,  to  all  who  lovo 
me!     Good-by ;  they  call  me." 

Again  she  felt  his  arms  about  her,  and  with  a  wild, 
despairing  cry,  she  started  up,  cobbing  forth  the  words : 

"Why!  yes,  oh,  why?" 

She  looked  about  her.  The  light  was  turned  very  low, 
but  then,  before  her,  as  in  years  long  gone,  she  could  see 
her  little  Herbert  lying  ill,  dying.  She  passed  her  hands 
again  and  again  across  her  brow,  and  then  gently  on  the 
pale  little  face  beside  her.  What  was  it?  A  dream !  all  a 
dream !  Those  long  years  of  anxious  care  and  final 
anguish  had  been  passed  only  in  dream-land. 

Weary  and  exhausted,  she  had  fallen  asleep.  A  blessed 
Bleep  it  was !  Through  which  she  had  gained  a  resignation 
to  His  will.    Then  she  could,  and  did  kneel  and  pray, 


WHAT    TBB    rUTTTBH    ICXaHT    BBZVO.      191 

*'lTot  mine,  but  Thy  will  be  done."  Oh,  yes ;  better  eoxild 
ibe  give  him  back  to  God  in  his  innocence  and  parity,  and 
think  of  him  as  waiting  her  coming  above,  than  hold  hixa 
back  to  earth  to  become,  perhaps,  as  she  had  dreamed. 

A  feeble  little  cry  fell  upon  her  ear : 

"  Mamma,  Herbie's  well  now.  Nothing  hurts  him. 
Iiook,  look  1  mamma.  Beauty  babies  call  Herbie.  Kisi, 
quick,  mamma ;  and  say  Herbie  may  go — say  quick  I " 

His  face  was  raised,  eagerly  gazing  uprard;  his  tiny 
hands  feebly  lifted.  Again  his  eyes  sought  his  mother'i 
with  an  appealing  glance,  and  she  strained  her  ear  to 
catch  his  words  so  low. 

"  Herbie,  go,  please  I "  He  seemed  only  waiting  her 
consent.  She  caught  him  to  her  bosom  in  a  last,  long 
embrace,  and  with  his  dear  face  pressed  close  to  hers,  sho 
breathed,  only  heard  by  Herbert  and  God : 

"  Go,  my  darling." 

Again  the  sweet  lips  tried  to  whisper;  but  only  th« 
words, "  Mamma, — come  I — a  while,"  reached  his  mother'i 
ear,  and  little  Herbert's  pure  spirit  had  joined  the  angeli 
waiting. 

She  laid  the  little  lifeless  form  tenderly  from  her,  and 
her  friends  wondered  how,  so  calmly.  They  had  dreaded 
BO  much  the  parting  moment.  Yes ;  calmly  she  bore  it. 
She  knew  a  more  bitter  parting  might  be  felt  than  that 
which  wfi2  oi:ly  for  a  "  little  while."  She  knew  it  wu 
that  which  Hf  .bie  tried  to  say: 

*'  MamL  a  tv  d  come  too,  after  a  little  while.'' 


\tKt. 


.J 


